Friday
excerpt from Jonathan Raban's Waxwings
"Here..." He rummaged in a side pocket of his brown silk jacket and produced a flat piece of stone about 2 inches square, which he handed to her like some very fragile precious object. "It's a kind of copper ore".
Her first thought was that it was beautiful - a veined swirl of dark but lucent green that put her immediately in mind of Douglas firs seen in the low summer-sunset light. It was the precise colour of Pacific Northwest. It was brilliant of him to have -
"It comes from Zambia", he said. "They've been quarrying it there for centuries."
Out of left field came her second thought: the malachite was ridiculous. Zambia? This sly boasting about stuff being shipped halfway around the world to adorn some Microsofties place! It was just like ... and then she remembered this was one of Tom's gibes after that fundraiser. Everything has to travel - even the bloody grass.
Her first thought was that it was beautiful - a veined swirl of dark but lucent green that put her immediately in mind of Douglas firs seen in the low summer-sunset light. It was the precise colour of Pacific Northwest. It was brilliant of him to have -
"It comes from Zambia", he said. "They've been quarrying it there for centuries."
Out of left field came her second thought: the malachite was ridiculous. Zambia? This sly boasting about stuff being shipped halfway around the world to adorn some Microsofties place! It was just like ... and then she remembered this was one of Tom's gibes after that fundraiser. Everything has to travel - even the bloody grass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)