After the damp gloom of some contemplative autumn weather we have clear skies and sun. The wind is rushing in the branches, swaying the pines, sighing around the dwellings of our exile, and scattering the leaves, like all the hosts of the ungodly, away.
It winds down, the semester. I have intelligible papers to put away for a while, a story to work on with concerted effort, reading to perform under minimal pressure, thoughts of preliminary exams that have to be undergone. The Latin is not what I’d like, but much improved. I’m going to try Aquinas, since one can persevere till the day of doom on him.
I’m going to be in John Owen and Scottish Presbyterianism both next semester, so I need to figure out some corresponding area of independent endeavor. It may be a good moment to start probing the Cambridge Platonists. It might, however, not prove unfruitful to have dealings with George MacDonald, what with Scottish Presbyterianism.