A friend recited it to my summer writing class from memory a few years ago. Which was appropriate, as she got it from Farenheit 451. I looked it up and found it credited to James Boswell, a Scots author (I'm part Scot) from 1777. This artist gives credit to Samuel Johnson, so the search is on. I've learned that Boswell was a fan and eventually a friend of Johnson and wrote several pieces in his honor including a biography. I've ordered the first piece that may include this passage in hopes of finding the correct attribution. Whichever man wrote it, it's an especially lovely quote.
I am so very lucky in my friendships. Some have passed through, some have passed through and returned (always a thrill and delight). For the most part my friends inspire me to live in joy and are a comfort when I am not quite there.
Which is less and less often.
Much going on here. My younger son is returning from his adventure in Nashville. His lessons are huge. First, he will not again stoop to performance for the sake of performance. He found the "music" he was required to duplicate unacceptable as music. Mostly, though, I think he learned that the magic he has always been able to make with music has more to do with the people he has played with than the music itself.
I am SO looking forward to attending his performances again in the near future.
He should be home Saturday. I am excited to have him (and my puppy) back, at least for a while. This man was raised in a home where tension overlay every day. It's going to be a treat to get acquainted without that stress.
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