This is what comes of puttering: too many things to follow up on simultaneously. That reminds me of Stephen Leacock's line about the man who flung himself out of the house and onto a horse and rode off in all directions at once. That's me all over, like the Scarecrow in Oz when he got torn up and his straw was scattered all over. "That's me all over, " he said.

And when it comes to books, that's me all over. I'm a magpie. Where did it start today? I received a Prime Delivery of a new book whose review I read on Sunday. I ordered it and it was delivered this morning. ONGOINGNESS: THE END OF A DIARY by Sarah Manguso, a young (early 40s-that's young) writer who kept a diary for 25 years because she wanted to "end each day with a record of everything that ever happened "- some 800,000 words. But then, after pregnancy and the birth of a child, she developed a different relationship with her (dare I say obsessive, anal-retentive?) need to document herself in time. So she wrote this short book. And I read her short book today. Ah, she is so young! Like another young (? - they don't give birth dates any more so I'm guessing) writer who came across some old diaries recording two years in her younger life, and who tries again to discover herself. I haven't finished THE FOLDED CLOCK, by Heidi Julavits; she's funny, sort of, but so far I don't really like her as a person.

Well, later today I had a normal delivery of two other books I ordered a week or so ago: Oliver Saks's new memoir/diary ON THE MOVE, and H IS FOR HAWK, a non-fiction account by Helen Macdonald, a woman who raised a hawk and wrote about it. I don't know enough yet; it was recommended by a friend whose reading I trust.

A certain amount of juggling has to go on as more and more books come into the house. I put a couple of books into our occupants' library and one into the Basement Boutique and then I pulled out a bunch of Icelandic and Scandinavian mystery/thrillers (Arnaldur Indriðason, Yrsa Guðrunsdottír, Henkel Menning) or novels (Olaf Olafson) to donate to the members of the Icelandic Canadian Club of Toronto when I give a speech to them in August about Icelandic literature (beginning, of course with the sagas).

So that led me to one of my favourite contemporary Icelandic-Canadian writers, Kristjana Gunnars. I have six of her books and I had to reread one or two of them: THE PROWLER, a novel, I guess, and WAKE-PICK POEMS, a book of poetry. I'm going to have trouble parting with them, have to think about that.

But somewhere in the sorting I picked up a book I bought a while ago, before I went away and had no time for: AN EVENING WHEN ALONE, Four Journals of Single Women in the South, 1827-67, ed. by Michael O'Brien, and I wish I had time to read it now but it's 460 pages and it's getting late. You se, I'm a magpie. Oh, dear.

I did other things today, but none so interesting or worthwhile. Well, now, that's not true; I had tea with two gifted women I swim with. I mean I don't swim with them but I see them when I swim and it was nice to sit at leisure and talk without shivering.

Stop now.

I knew a long time ago, sooner than most people because my husband died so young, that I was not immortal. Young people today still think they are. The recognition of one's mortality frees one somehow; nothing is as frightening as it might have been. "What's the worst could happen?" You hear people say that. Well, there are lots of things worse than death. We know that now, don't we? I can say the D-word quite casually, and I never say "passed" about someone who has died. I say died. I do like the metaphors, though, from "he has shuffled off this mortal coil" to "he has gone to that Big Boardroom in the sky."

Kenny Rogers said it in his song about The Gambler: you have to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em and "the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." With so many violent deaths possible now, that's a fond hope not granted to many. But here's a funny thing: in the last few months I have begun to feel immortal. Against all odds, I'm feeling very full of life. It was the cruise, I guess. I've been wondering how I would change and I can see/feel that I have, but I didn't expect this.

While I was away I had news of a friend's illness, from one of her chlldren. (The ship had Wifi, of course.) This woman and I had been friends for 42 years, though we never lived in the same city, were indeed separated by many miles and very different life situations. I picked her up or she picked me up, not sure which, on fan mail. I had written the first piece about my newly fledged widowhood, published in MacLean's magazine, and she had read it and written me and asked if we could meet for lunch the next time she was in Toronto. That's how it began, and continued until as late as last February when she was in Toronto and came for lunch and wished me well on my world cruise, and wasn't it lucky that it had been shortened or we might never have seen each other again. So, just weeks later, her daughter informed me that her mother was ill. I was on the mailing list and received bulletins of fast failing health, even received a photograph revealing that shocking, recognizable mask of death on her face. And then the news came that she had died, all within about four weeks. Sic transit gloria mundi.

You see, I know, I know. Sooner or later, it's going to happen. I know that. "One out of one dies of something," as my late husband used to say. But still, I feel immortal.

I'm here, aren't I?