By way of explanation

First, by way of explanation: the previous post was the first few lines of Wallace Stevens' Sunday Morning. It's a favourite of mine, despite (or even because of) its complete self-indulgence. Despite my convulted agnosticism, I've got a lot of time for 'the holy hush of ancient sacrifice'. Nonetheless, it's also important to relish in indulgent pleasure at times. After all, as Kingsley Amis put it: 'nice things are nicer than nasty ones'. And so, I'd like to celebrate 'the complacencies of the peignoir', sitting feet up with a book of poetry, for the sheer pleasure of it.