The morning after Britain’s general election, as Boris Johnson is elected prime minister, I work at an antique schoolhouse desk in a Victorian house in the Midlands. At the old desk, I lose track of time, writing notes for essays I’m researching. A painting I saw at Charlecote Park, the details of a small chapel in Warwick, the water rising in almost every place I visit.
At the old desk, it almost seems like I’m living someone else’s life: here I am halfway across the world from my apartment in Miami, where the days are scorching even in December, where the water is also rising.
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