Last week I read PD James’ autobiography, A Time To Be In Earnest. I came across a word I have no memory of previously meeting: susurration.
In my response to this book I wrote:
only by the note of a song bird and the susurration
[a soft, whispering or rustling sound] of the breeze
in the wayside grasses. It was one of those moments
of happiness and contentment which give reality to death,
since however long we have to live, there are never enough springs.
I carried this delicious word around in the pockets of my mind, taking it out, turning it over and examining it while I drove to the post office or made my bed.
I am finishing up Russell Kirk’s autobiography, The Sword of Imagination, and lo! I found the down-pillow-of-a-word again! He writes of Clinton Wallace, a hobo whom they took into their home and lives for the last six years of Clinton’s life.