I didn't know it had a name. It was only today, while comparing two photos, that I noticed: Little Mary is blepping every time she meows. It might be because her muzzle is a bit shorter than Bron's, who has more of ancient Egyptian cats silhouette. And perhaps that's why Little Mary snores. With her rather stocky build and tiger-like gait, she resembles our dear Richard more and more.
That's what a book looks like after the close encounter with cat piss. I choose to laugh rather than cry. It must've happened sometime around the first week we had our kittens, and it was partly down to my own laziness. For at least a week, maybe two, I refused to check what's going on behind the couch, though I knew that frightened Little Mary had been hiding there the first night. She didn't climb onto the bookshelf, little peanut, but when the girls were playing, some of the books from the pile fell to the floor and were left there, unattended, for a while (a long while, as the books stink like a dead mackerel). I'd decided to help them with vinegar; the one in the photo still stinks, maybe there's no magical cure :(, but I'm trying once again.
Going back to the book itself – I love Vigdis Hjorth, I love her passion. Over a year ago I discovered two brilliant Norwegian writers: her and Jon Fosse (actually, Fosse much earlier, in autumn'23). The latter got the Nobel Prize, which means a lot of his work has been translated into English and my mother tongue. Vigdis is far more obscure. Just yesterday I found myself frustrated that I don't know Norwegian. Only five of her books are available in English, only four books translated into Polish, luckily two of them are different from the ones in English, but still a big part of her work is inaccessible to me. Feck! Only now have I realised that both, Hjorth and Fosse, debuted the same year of 1983. Both their voices are of extreme literary beauty.
I've read Hjorth's Is Mother Dead, A House in Norway, and Will and Testament so far. I got If Only, on paper and as an ebook (the exact one in the photo, smelling of Little Mary's pee), and Long Live the Post Horn! on my e-reader waiting for their turn. As for Fosse, I'm reading his writings in two languages: have read I-II and III-VI of Septology (in Polish, translation of the the last part is coming out soon), A Shining (in Polish Białość), and two in English: Scenes From a Childhood and The Dead Dogs. I don't tend to read just one writer intensely, so it'll take me a fair while to get through more of their work. Still, even thinking about it makes me happy.
Arrrrghgh, I spent the Easter holidays mostly on my own (I'm not counting the Dog). On Saturday evening, with clothes and laptops packed, we drove to Dún Dealgan to catch up with our friends before their trip to the Canary Islands. Fred was working that day, and again the next day, same today. It was raining (only now it's starting to clear up a bit), didn't feel like going outside; I'm bored.
Rang my parents yesterday morning to check how they were. They'd already had breakfast with święconka. I'm not sure if the food (eggs, bread, sausage, salt & butter) was actually blessed, maybe it was, though my parents aren't really firm believers and they usually don't attend Sunday Mass. I, on the other hand, didn't make anything special to eat; I left that chore to my husband, who'd cooked bigos and żurek earlier in the week. We brought all this food with us here, and I had both dishes on Sunday. Later, I watched a very interesting film, The Outrun (2024), with Saoirse Ronan. I recommended it to Fred, and we ended up watching it again together in the evening.
Side note: I tend to say "Happy Holidays" to people around Easter time, though I know it's not a typical greeting in English. In Polish language we have the phrase Wesołych świąt, which works well for both, Christmas and Easter, and for any other religious holiday that involves joy & happiness. I like the idea that people who hear the greeting can interpret it in their own way, depending on what kind of holy day they want to observe.
Sometime after breakfast, I was surprised to hear that Jorge Bergoglio, known as Pope Francis, had died that morning. Well, not really surprised – he had been in and out of the hospital over the past few weeks. His official opinions regarding the Russian invasion of Ukraine were abominable, but now the king is dead, long live the king. I'm sure I'll be hearing about this whole circus many more times yet.
So much for the religious subjects. From our bedroom window we have a clear view of the Croslieve Mountain, and a bit of Slieve Gullion to the left, partly hidden by the trees. I want to go out. Not tomorrow. Today!