Adventsläsning

The Major, whose surname was unfortunately Pratts, sat reading a book in the morning-room. He did not read as you and I read—as people read who turn the pages of a volume consecutively. No; the Major had, during the course of his career, spent many years in different places about the deserts of Africa, and had, in consequence, acquired an entirely individual manner of reading. Each page, having been perused, was torn from its fellows and cast like a white raft upon the ocean of the Major's blue Persian carpet. The Pomeranian, who slept this morning at the old soldier's feet, had been accustomed to these fluttering pages for close upon fifteen years, and quivered not a whisker as the beginning of Chapter Five of certain considerably tropic memoirs glided past her ears to the floor. She had heard many times—and who shall say had not understood?—the reason, given with martial precision, why the Major always read his books in this uncommon manner. He would explain very gravely—for he had a sense of humor—that when one travels in the desert every ounce carried is important; one must pay with the sweat of one's brow for each jot and tittle of superfluity.
                                          ur From a Balcony, by James F. Courage

Man Reading

Emmanuel Levy (1900-1986)

James Francis Courage (9 February 1903–5 October 1963) was a New Zealand novelist, short-story writer, poet and bookseller. He was born in Christchurch, North Canterbury, New Zealand on 9 February 1903.

He moved to England as a young man, dying in Hampstead.

                                                från Wikipedia

Mer information än så, hittar jag inte om James. Och en endaste novell hittar jag på nätet — det är synd, jag skulle verkligen vilja läsa mer av honom. Det här är den sortens novell, som inte ger mig några ledtrådar om vilken riktning berättelsen kommer att ta — och som därför får mig att nyfiket läsa vidare.

Det är en tidlös berättelse, som lika gärna kunde ha varit skriven i dag som för 91 år sedan.