Reading this wonder of a book: Journey to Portugal/ Viagem a Portugal. I am almost halfway through. It is one of those few books which, for all its descriptions and digressions, remains honest to the 'Journey'. I feel enchanted to find that this book travels at its own pace. I just cannot help it. But with that I mean something important I realise now with reading the kind I am dealing with. By taking me the reader at its own pace it shows how much the book is in control of the opposite side.
As I sail through these pages quite snail like; happily, I bring in a line from the author and rest shall resume:
For a butterfly born with the morning and dying before dusk, night does not exist.