Peonies... and Pearl Buck.

For several weeks now, the peonies have been out in flower, with beautiful ruffled petals, billowing out of their slightly oriental-looking buds... Over this same period, as chance would have it, I have been reading a copy of the book Pivoine that I recovered from one of the book-share points around town.

Set in mid 19th-century China, it traces the story of a wealthy Jewish merchant family living in Kaifeng, a city set in the province of Henan and known for its community of Chinese Jews. The eponymous character of the novel, Peony, is in fact the Chinese bondmaid of the Ezra household, and her actions are central to the events that will mark the family's fate and faith. Quite what those will be exactly, and the outcome of which, I have yet to learn as I haven't made much progress so far, so absolutely no need to issue a 'spoiler' warning here !

For years, I used to come across the name of the author in question, Pearl Buck, when rummaging around second-hand book shops and visiting brocantes... and I gave it a very wide berth! As I had never heard of her novels in England, or anywhere else for that matter, I just assumed this was some writer of ghastly potboilers - steeped in romance and/or adventure; hence the seemingly stagey name ! Little did I know at the time that Buck (1892—1973) was not only a highly-acclaimed novelist, born to American missionary parents and brought up in China, but also responsible for the foundation of an international, interracial adoption organisation. In fact her life is just as fascinating as her writings but more of all that when I have actually finished reading Pivoine !

Le Chat... Charles Baudelaire.

Dans ma cervelle se promène, ainsi qu'en son appartement, un beau chat, fort, doux et charmant. Quand il miaule, on l'entend à peine, Tant son timbre est tendre et discret ; mais que sa voix s'apaise ou gronde, elle est toujours riche et profonde. C'est là son charme et son secret. Cette voix, qui perle et qui filtre dans mon fonds le plus ténébreux, me remplit comme un vers nombreux et me réjouit comme un philtre. Elle endort les plus cruels maux et contient toutes les extases ; pour dire les plus longues phrases, elle n'a pas besoin de mots. Non, il n'est pas d'archet qui morde sur mon coeur, parfait instrument, et fasse plus royalement chanter sa plus vibrante corde, Que ta voix, chat mystérieux, chat séraphique, chat étrange, en qui tout est, comme en un ange, aussi subtil qu'harmonieux ! De sa fourrure blonde et brune sort un parfum si doux, qu'un soir j'en fus embaumé, pour l'avoir caressée une fois, rien qu'une. C'est l'esprit familier du lieu ; il juge, il préside, il inspire toutes choses dans son empire ; peut-être est-il fée, est-il dieu ? Quand mes yeux, vers ce chat que j'aime tirés comme par un aimant, se retournent docilement et que je regarde en moi-même, je vois avec étonnement le feu de ses prunelles pâles, clairs fanaux, vivantes opales, qui me contemplent fixement.

Perfect Purple... Again!

End of the month, and despite seeing so many beautiful things over the last few weeks and months, I have not had the time to set them all out and admire them... There did, however, seem to be a large quantity of purple, in all shades, on flowers of all shapes and forms!

The majestic irises came and went, standing in all their glory; tall and proud around the town...

The elegant fritillary flowers stood poised in a florist's window, chequered heads gently bent down...

Whilst the Spanish lavender seemed to hover in the garden centre, like a swarm of floral insects...

The foxgloves towering in rows, with their speckled fingers drawing in the bees...

And the classic rose, buds and blooms, climbing up trellises...

Clusters of columbines, bursting out, raindrops gathered on the bright iris...