D (May)

 This May I read the author whose name ends in D. He writes enigmatically in this fashion of his boyhood marbles collection, the capital city where he lived most of his life, and other egocentric matters. He says he writes personal mythology. This May I read about the collapse of insect species. I think of butterflies, with their delta-shaped wings, being no more. It puts me in mind of how literature is a game for ladies and gentlemen, wrapped up in pastimes like playing with marbles or letters, discussing what it was like living in the world’s most liveable city.