Waiting in the offing he spread the book across his lap and began to read,
AMONG THE MANY SCIENTIFIC WORKS undertaken by my father in his rare moments of calm and inner equilibrium, between the bouts of disaster and catastrophe in which that audacious and boisterous life abounded, closest to his heart were studies in Comparative Meteorology, and particularly in the specific climate of our province, replete with its own singular kind of oddness. It was he, my very father, who laid the foundations for the scholarly analysis of climatic formations. His ‘An Outline of the General Systematic of Autumn’ explained once and for all the essence of that season, which in our provincial climate takes on that protracted, branching and parasitically exuberant form that, under the name of ‘Indian summer’, extends far into the depths of our coloured winters.[1]
Offing he lit a sweet Maryland cigarette, his lips puckering round the inhaling end. He had little interest for Comparative Meteorology or General Systematics, finding things of a scientific nature addled, or worse, sadly mistaken. He understood things to be simply what they are, not how we think they are or how we want them to be, but simply how we found them, there, laying on the ground in front of us waiting to be held, fondled, looked at and digested. He kept things simple, not having the patience for fuddling, or worse, rash hypotheses.
[1] Bruno Schulz, Cinnamon Shops
AMONG THE MANY SCIENTIFIC WORKS undertaken by my father in his rare moments of calm and inner equilibrium, between the bouts of disaster and catastrophe in which that audacious and boisterous life abounded, closest to his heart were studies in Comparative Meteorology, and particularly in the specific climate of our province, replete with its own singular kind of oddness. It was he, my very father, who laid the foundations for the scholarly analysis of climatic formations. His ‘An Outline of the General Systematic of Autumn’ explained once and for all the essence of that season, which in our provincial climate takes on that protracted, branching and parasitically exuberant form that, under the name of ‘Indian summer’, extends far into the depths of our coloured winters.[1]
Offing he lit a sweet Maryland cigarette, his lips puckering round the inhaling end. He had little interest for Comparative Meteorology or General Systematics, finding things of a scientific nature addled, or worse, sadly mistaken. He understood things to be simply what they are, not how we think they are or how we want them to be, but simply how we found them, there, laying on the ground in front of us waiting to be held, fondled, looked at and digested. He kept things simple, not having the patience for fuddling, or worse, rash hypotheses.
[1] Bruno Schulz, Cinnamon Shops
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