Fred First, "Slow road home"

There're many books I don't like...Those novels full of events, characters, words and details, these complicated stories...Like some films you see on TV...
The more I read , the more I like these sentences written by Hemingway:
"Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don't know the ten-dollar- words. I know them allright. But there are older and simpler and better words and those are the ones I use."
Who am I to judge English speaking litterature? just a reader...The same applies to French litterature...I like simple words...they may be strong, made just for the sentence, invented, but they must not be "fussy" ,not made to be pretty, made to be beautiful, powerful...
A friend who speaks what I call a beautiful language , gave me this title:
"Slow road home: a blueridge book of days" by Fred First...
The website looks like the man, the house he lives in too...simple, deep...
Read it...
"Stranger in a Strange Land
I don't have a job to go to and I don't have a plan for what comes next. And yet, somehow, I am not as anxious about this as I would have thought I'd be.
But I do feel guilty--as if I had skipped school. I pull back behind the curtains when the few cars go by the house, lest their drivers, our neighbors, see that I'm not at work on a weekday. I tell myself to relax and enjoy being here while I can. This is not house arrest. It is not punishment. It is an odd kind of time apart from work that might become more like an unplanned vacation between jobs-a strange vacation, I'll grant you-just me here all day, every day. The place seems unfamiliar, like a bed-and-breakfast, somewhere I've spent many nights but not so many days. Maybe the next few weeks will be a sort of spiritual retreat, one novitiate and one big black dog in eighty acres of quiet sanctuary."
I feel the same now I retired...