It occurs every year, around the first week of March. The large front room here, devoted to music, becomes inundated with the sun’s long, horizontal rays, as it first bursts over the Parisian rooftops of the buildings across the street.
On days when the sun is out, of course.
But it’s always a glorious and welcome sign that the cold genius of Winter has released his grip, and longer days are indeed with us. The south/south-eastern exposure due to the floor¬-to-ceiling windows is so intense that throughout the summer you could sunbathe without going outdoors, which I do.
Recently I’ve spotted here a refraction that unexpectedly appears, and which sends rainbow-hued light in various directions. Sometimes across a Georges Braque engraving in one corner, which is really quite complimentary. Sometimes directly into the case of Venetian stemmed glasses, collected during many trips across the Laguna to Murano. And today directly onto the open pages of the book I’m enjoying at the moment. Just imagine the display of all the radiant colors of a prism across two full pages, and how this enhances the reading of the last days of Friedrich Nietzsche!
Somewhat superstitious about this Newtonian phenomenon, I haven’t researched or even questioned how this can happen, for as we all know it might break the mysterious spell.
Today I was scurrying to get lunch on the table and suddenly noticed Biscuit was now spectacularly sleeping under the magical projector from Oz. He must have sensed the warmth, like any cat, but I suspect his theatrical nature might have been employed to dramatically draw this moment to our attention. You can join me in the applause, but instead of taking his bow, he has now retired to another, cooler corner until further notice.
Still sleeping of course, as it’s not yet midnight – the moment he becomes gray again. For:
« La nuit, tous les chats sont gris »
