Home L’oulipien de l’année La nuit

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Night! Soon as our small mound of dry wood is flaring, night is an invisibility. Soon as that dry stuff is blazing, it’s all that counts. And it’s hypnotic. Tonight, look, not a cloud is hanging on, not a cloud but has quit our sky. Night has stuck its brass drawing-pins (U.S. "thumbtacks") into our upstairs joists, adding an arc of moon, round, couth and alluring as a manicurist’s nail. It’s just as chilly now, that’s a fact, if not almost frosty - but air is filling our lungs in copious draughts, it’s holidays, it’s holiday camp! No big briny, you may say - that’s missing - but, as a portrait of infinity, a sky is not such a bad thing at all. No actual plan of ours has got us off on holiday so soon, or possibly for so long. Look at that star! I saw it, you saw it, look again, it’s twinkling! - notwithstanding that if light is in truth as fast as rumour has it, that star has quit long ago this mortal coil.