In the Long Room of the Trinity College Library (There are nine libraries containing several millions of volumes; the Long Room itself holds over 200,000 and is still very active daily with about 20 sitting and visiting scholars squirreling away at something terribly deep.), a bust of Cicero reminds me of that hot and endless summer when I was still in my teens translating the speeches of Cicero to complete my Latin I.
Impossible amidst hormones that did much more than rage.
"I needn't mention what Caesar did in Gaul as you all know those achievements. Nor what he accomplished in Spain."
At the national gallery I realize this: The more I see the great master painters (Rembrandt, Vermeer, Caravaggio will do), the less I comprehend their deed. What miracles!
At the Abbey a new work, "The Seafarer," by a most popular and stellar Dublin writer, Conor McPherson.
It may be good. I couldn't tell.
The room is hot, a full house, I am tired and the couple in front of me are brilliant.
The house lights go down.
A man on the stage walks down a flight of stairs. The woman talks to her husband.
The man crosses the living room on stage. He talks back to her.
And so on for one hour.
As I hurried to leave the theatre, I tripped and hurtled forward into a railing.
Alright. I got home.
On Thursday, I'll go back for another play. Hope springs eternal.