Confession of an Opium Admirer:
After sleeping in on this grey morning, I read more of Thomas De Quincey’s Confessions of an Opium Eater, which so far has been platitudes and childhood autobiography instead of those sordid details I craved. I thought of the tasks and chores before me this morning and afternoon, and how much chillier it outside, and the trouble of getting dressed, and–I confess– opium eating sounds delightful. Opium sounds like the sport of bedside philosophers, princes of thought, and the coffee I have in my hand the bitter encouragement given to worker ants.
After all, there’s a reason that I am reading the Confessions concurrent to Lewis Carrol’s The Hunting of the Snark. Either the Confessions need to pan out more, or I need to secure some opium.