I’m reading two very different books at present. The first is something I read back in secondary school and am now revisiting, John Gribbin’s In Search of Schrodinger’s Cat, about the history of quantum physics. Which made me remember how the whole idea of atoms being little solar systems with electrons whizzing about in orbits wasn’t necessarily accurate.
And, by contrast, I picked up a copy of Etcetera, an anthology of unpublished e.e. cummings poems. Got a call late Tuesday night, and she asked “what are you doing now?” And I had to answer, truthfully, “reading poetry”. Which is possibly a preposterously pretentious-sounding response. But there’s some beauty there.