Daily Blague

Writing from Kathleen's tiny VAIO, without the help of my text editor, I have managed to connect - and to report that I am alive and reasonably well. We're at the InterContinental San Juan, on Isla Verde - Puerto Rico's Miami Beach. It is pouring rain - which is not a problem, since Kathleen's at the convention, while I've got lots to read.

Kathleen had the bright idea of slipping me an Atavan on the flight, and I think that it had a healthy effect. The ride was really rather smooth, with only a few isolated moments of turbulence, never so rough as to prompt the captain to turn on the seat-belt sign. Even so, I detected a difference, a lack of apprehension. I wasn't waiting for the plane to rumble.

As a result, I was able to read the first dozen chapters of Emma, absorbed enough to pay attention to Jane Austen's unusual opening strategy. I'll write about this more when writing is a bit more convenient, but what distinguishes the opening of Emma from the conventional opening of a nineteenth-century novel is that, instead of beginning with a crisis that will set the action in motion while allowing the characters to present themselves, it dilates on the heroine's environment, widening the circle of her world a little bit in every chapter. Chapter 2, for example, expands upon the Weston connection, introducing the as-yet unmet Frank Churchill. In the following chapter, Harriet Smith steps forward - or, rather, is gently prodded into prominence by Emma's not entirely disinterested attentions. The opening action - disengaging Harriet from Robert Martin and preparing the field for -

But what's this? The good ladies at the Business Center have hooked my own machine up. Boy, am I dumb.