And then I went back to Proust. One of the great things about this apartment is the little porch. We share it with the other half of the house, but we've never seen them out there and it's really only large enough for a few chairs, but it's still perfect. I rushed home the Friday before last--put some pickles and cheese on a plate (having a salt craving apparently), set up the folding lounger I bought for this reason, the umbrella I got on sale from Pier 1 years ago and can finally use and read. Bliss--well, until the big raindrops came down--and I was only a few pages from the end of a section--spent a moment trying to decide if I could finish the section and had to decide that I couldn't. Oddly enough, in the book the narrator was describing being so moved by nature on his walks that he felt that he needed to find the space to put down in words a description of his feelings, but always, by the time he got home other things would intrude and the moment would be lost...
nov·el /ˈnɒvəl/ –adjective/ of a new kind; different from anything seen or known before: a novel idea. *** eye -noun/ 6. the power of seeing; appreciative or discriminating visual perception: the eye of an artist. 8. an attentive look, close observation, or watch 9. regard, view, aim, or intention 10. a manner or way of looking at a thing