One egg.
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that’s all he had to eat for the day?
crazy.
I mean, seriously. One?
Ha! I knew it!
Can these entry’s become any more minimal?
“Two eggs.” Was the last entry in George Orwell’s diary, he was found dead in the morning, one egg in the frying pan burned to charcoal because the element was on all night, the other, sitting in Mr Orwell’s mouth. Glaringly white, complimenting the skin and the setting in of rigor mortis.
Go, Gene!
How apropos for election day…
He was going to say “One egg,ran out of ink.Goat winked @ me today”
They drew straws for the solitary egg. Eileen became owner of the egg and refused to share it, choosing instead to hoard it. Eric, pouting, slept on the couch.
Caption: “Inside terribly bad in the night.”
Pingback: Even more to the point, Mr. Orwell - RobAroundBooks
Beatiful…it has become all that matters
Skip the damn eggs and eat the hen!
Very zen.
If there’s one thing that reading old George’s diary has taught me so far, it’s to appreciate my regular unfettered access to cartons of dozens of eggs.
How far we’ve come!
It’s true! I just checked the refrigerator.
How did he know?
George erased the next sentenced: Dropped it.
I just hope he varies styles, but then I guess we’d see entries like:
Poached.
Sunny side up.
Runny.
The results of his nurturing are important to him, even unto “one egg.” He is a man who acts with intention.
That George is even getting eggs at all is a good sign. Pullets are slow to come on with eggs, and the fact that they are sick as well is another challenge for him. I’m having a little deja vu since I was just posting to my blog about our hens starting to lay eggs as well. It really is exciting enough to write about.
Ed:
Me too! The man was the Nostradamus of his time.
Get out your harmonica, George, and play some soothing music for those hens.
brilliantly laconic, plain spoken and realist-what to me defines much of his writing
Yes, he has it exactly.
Freedom is the freedom to say egg plus egg makes omelette.
Only a single word means human presence.
Egg. Effect of the life
Egg. Even cause of life.
Is this word wrote this day of 4.11.1938 litterature ?
Yes, it is. Because it is not a unique word.
It is the word of one day on Eric Blair’s diary.
For some readers, this word is not so lonely, it was
just written with red letters.
“Ask not which came first,” the rooster said to the hen, “nor from whence it came. Cracked, fried, or boiled, it’s fate remains the same.”
“Ask not which came first,”
the rooster said to the hen,
“nor from whence it came.
Cracked, fried, or boiled,
it’s fate remains the same.”
This summer I bought eggs at an open air market from a farmer that raised chickens.
Several times when I cracked an egg open it had two yokes. I asked the farmer about that; and he said that happens when the hen is very young or old.