“Richard, do you ever think about luxury?” she asked him.
“I don’t crave it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Luxury, I think, is the total fulfillment of all five senses at once. Luxury is now. I feel warm; and, if I wish, I can reach out and touch your hand. I smell the sea and, as well, somebody inside the hotel is frying onions. Delicious. I am tasting cold beer, and I can hear gulls, and water lapping, and the fishing boat’s engine going chug-chug-chug in the most satisfactory sort of way.”
“And what do you see?”
She turned her head to look at him, sitting there with his hair ruffled, and wearing his old sweater, and the leather patched Harris tweed jacket that smelt of peat. “I see you.” He smiled.
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me your luxury.”


I was going to compose beautiful (I hoped) lines about poetry and coffee and warmth, but when it comes down to it, Jesus is my one luxury. He alone gives purpose to my life. I do so love those other things, but they pale in comparison. Here’s everything I have, my Love, because You are the richest of fare.


Look, the sea has not fallen and broken
Our heads. How can I feel so warm
Here in the dead center of January? I can
Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is
The only life I have. I get up from the stone.
My body mumbles something unseemly
And follows me. Now we are all sitting here strangely
On top of sunlight.

- James Wright


Found this in a journal entry from my days in Barcelona:
“EFFING CATALAN. That language is out to ruin my life.”