At long last I made my way to the end of Cheryl Misak's biography of Frank Ramsey. And though the whole romance and mystery of Ramsey is tied up in his early death, at the age of 27, and the promise of what he might have done had he lived, I was nonetheless greatly saddened when the book actually came to the moment of his death. Perhaps it was the sadness of all those around him -- Keynes, Wittgenstein, Russell, really all of Cambridge -- but it was also just the fact that he seemed like such a genuinely nice guy, a lovable lunk.
In any case, as with any book I finish, I'm glad it's done. Now I can put it on the shelf and read another one.
But before that, I need to go work on cleaning up the porch because Kate and Kim are coming next weekend after we all head up to the mountains to see Sierra Ferrell in concert at Galax. Psyched for that.
And, oh yeah, I was proud to beat Adam 7-5 today in a hard-fought set after holding off a number of set points when I was down 5-4. I continue to develop solid mental callouses.
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