Tove Jansson's Summer House

I dreamt last night that I was on a tour of Tove Jansson's summer house (a sure sign that I'm anxious to get to my next read after I finish Chabon and Walser). We wandered through rooms with low rafters, the timber cold and musty from being closed off for the winter and only recently let to breathe again. There was evidence of insects recently swept aside. In one room, the windows were thrown open, stacks of old suitcases lined the walls, and clothes were cast about on tables next to antique oval mirrors. Tove's clothes. A rotund gentleman snoozed in a chair in the corner, hands folded over his stomach. On a table in the center of the room, I found a spectacularly large floppy hat that, once tried on, made me look like a film star from the forties. The price tag said $19, but I didn't buy it because it felt wrong to take Tove's things. It suddenly felt wrong to be so close to her personal, private things. The wood creaked beneath our feet as we contemplated which room to visit next. We chose the open air of the garden.

Back in the waking world, I discover that the survival of certain authors’ house tours is being threatened due to lack of financing. (via Maud)

Maybe I should have bought that hat.

(I plan to take a few days off from writing here to focus on an off-blog essay I've had in my head for a while -- an essay, oddly enough, inspired by an author's house tour.)

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