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183 pages, Hardcover
First published July 7, 2016
We were in Venice in April and I was drunk on aquamarine light. It is an airy light, playing with the moving dark surfaces of the canals, shining on stone and marble, bringing both together in changing ways, always aquamarine. I found that an odd thing was happening to me. Every time I closed my eyes—which I increasingly did deliberately—I saw a very English green, a much more yellow green, composed of the light glittering on shaved lawns, and the dense green light in English woods, light vanishing into gnarled tree trunks, flickering on shadows on the layers of summer leaves.
When I began this essay I didn’t know how much it was going to age about another thing that obsesses me as a reader and a writer: Work. E.M. Forster once remarked sagaciously that novelists do not give work the importance it has in real life, not as much as love and death. And here I had not one but two obsessive workers, endlessly inventive, endlessly rigorous, endlessly beautiful. They both made the place they lived identical with the place they worked.
Morris famously said, ‘If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody this is it: have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’