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I write this while sitting underneath a small, window air conditioner, one that barely cools the space around me, not to mention the entire room. Outside, the temperature clocks in at 91 degrees with humidity somewhere between 70 and 80 percent, the heat index somewhere in the triple digits, completely obscene.

I'm visiting my hometown in rural northern California, and as I write this I'm sitting on an ocean bluff in fog so thick I can't see the water. I am told that this particular bluff is home to the southernmost individual Sitka spruce on the west coast, but the tree is allegedly nestled in a hidden rocky crevice and I haven't located it yet. The fog doesn't help, of course.

Up until six months ago, I had never read anything by Muriel Spark. I had heard of her, of course, and thought I knew a couple of things about her. For example, I knew she was from Australia (wrong). And I knew she was a historical romance novelist (wrong, wrong). Where did I get these ideas from? I cannot remember. Probably from guessing. I am an inveterate guesser which might be why I get lost ALL THE TIME. But that is beside the point. Let us talk about Muriel Spark!

Here's a story: a guy is looking for a place to sit down and hang out. There are a bunch of empty chairs all over the place, but they're not peaceful enough because there are loud people sitting in other chairs nearby.

(Space Baby hasn't learned to talk.)
1984: Oceania, Every Thought 'Tis for Thee
George Orwell's 1949 novel envisioned a distant dystopian future (or a veiled present?) in 1984 (1948?) when the only permissible pleasure is "a boot stamping on a human face," and the government promotes Newspeak, a new version of English devoid of words to express freedom and rebellion.