The cure is lethargy, an hour or two with the weather forecasts, abstaining from the comment sections of newspapers, shaving irregularly and a little canning in the company of the outdoor stove with its community of fiercely defensive biting creatures. It's not that complicated. But I do have a copy of the Atlas Maior of 1665, it's a Printed With Suspect Ink Edition from the less feudal decade of the 1990's, some smart-arse reckoned the coffee table book buying public might be interested and I fell for it when the Books A Million business model was surrendering to the inevitable.
Yes indeed those where the bad old days before Hedge Funds owned countries and
state agencies had a proper handle on the security risk posed by whether its
populace used nail scissors or nail clippers. Quite what happened, I don't know.
But back in the 1930's Edwin and Willa Muir first translated Franz Kafka's Das
Schloss from the German into English. Kafka himself had been dead a while when
his work entered the lexicons of the more fashionable English Speaking People.
Edwin Muir himself was an Orcadian, which means he was born on the Orkney
Islands, a kind of isolated and lonely place where Puffins also live. Yet
sometime today, I will attempt to shave.