Under Mémoires d'Hadrien's influence.
Mon cher Marc,
Je suis descendu ce matin chez mon médecin Hermogène, qui vient de rentrer à la Villa après un assez long voyage en Asie. L'examen devait se faire à jeun : nous avions pris rendez-vous pour les premières heures de la matinée.
It's with books like this that one realizes what separates a chief d'oeuvre of an enjoyable reading. I was first introduced to Marguerite Yourcenar in a French intensive course over the summer, in 2003; it was just a name among several other relevant French writers Mme. Vilar thought that we had to know about. One year after, my Catalan teacher, someone towards whom I will always feel gratitude, made a list of novels that she thought I could enjoy; I was sixteen years old and, by then, Lindsey Davis' The Silver Pigs, with its fast writing and detectivesque flavor, was much more appealing as a summer read than the -also Roman- erudition contained Hadrien's letter to Marcus Aurelius. I didn't buy myself a copy of Yourcenar's book until three years ago, as a definitive measure to make the time to read it; and not until less than one month ago I put it in my handbag. Needless to say, I've been completely mind-blown by it, and I'm trying to keep this pleasant aftertaste for as long as possible, in spite of other books (What is History?, E. H. Carr) begging to be read.
Je suis descendu ce matin chez mon médecin Hermogène, qui vient de rentrer à la Villa après un assez long voyage en Asie. L'examen devait se faire à jeun : nous avions pris rendez-vous pour les premières heures de la matinée.
It's with books like this that one realizes what separates a chief d'oeuvre of an enjoyable reading. I was first introduced to Marguerite Yourcenar in a French intensive course over the summer, in 2003; it was just a name among several other relevant French writers Mme. Vilar thought that we had to know about. One year after, my Catalan teacher, someone towards whom I will always feel gratitude, made a list of novels that she thought I could enjoy; I was sixteen years old and, by then, Lindsey Davis' The Silver Pigs, with its fast writing and detectivesque flavor, was much more appealing as a summer read than the -also Roman- erudition contained Hadrien's letter to Marcus Aurelius. I didn't buy myself a copy of Yourcenar's book until three years ago, as a definitive measure to make the time to read it; and not until less than one month ago I put it in my handbag. Needless to say, I've been completely mind-blown by it, and I'm trying to keep this pleasant aftertaste for as long as possible, in spite of other books (What is History?, E. H. Carr) begging to be read.