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Florence in Words

Why Dorothy Sayers?

I first began to read mysteries as a substitute for scotch which I was using to survive 12-hour days with my mother. Each evening at about seven, I’d flee from the Palm Beach nursing home to the nearest bar and drink two scotches in succession, giving myself a splitting headache and a reason to go to bed at once. So I’d drive the few blocks to my motel, and fall asleep in my clothes, only to wake in the middle of the night, head aching still, and in need of food. Read More 
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Depression and Immobility

As I made my bed this morning, I thought, how easy it is to smooth out the wrinkles, line up the pillows, pull up the quilt. It takes only less than a minute, and yet, some mornings I avoid the ritual. Is it a sign of health to make my bed or to ignore it? Or is the question irrelevant? Am I searching for meaning in a world that seems purposeless? Or if the world is not purposeless in general, still, I can find no purpose in it for myself. Yes, my friends tell me this is simply the aftermath of finishing a huge project. The slough of despond—does anyone remember that expression?—will soon depart and I will be engaged in a new project, feeling hopeful again. Read More 
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