Healing from this foot surgery requires me to not walk very far, essentially confining myself to the house. Much reading has occurred in the last six weeks.
In reading Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, I was amused to find this poem given by one of the characters to a lady he was wooing. I change the gender.
On the convalescence of the swollen foot of the object of my affections
A captivating little foot,
Though swollen and red and tender!
The doctors come and plasters put,
But still they cannot mend her.
Yet, 'tis not for his foot I dread --
A theme for Pushkin's muse more fit--
It's not his foot, it is his head:
I tremble for his loss of wit!
For as his foot swells, strange to say,
His intellect is on the wane--
Oh, for some remedy I pray
That may restore both foot and brain!
I laughed aloud. My soul still grins.
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