Here I Sit, Alone At 60, Bald

Sometimes There Is No Next Time, No Time-outs, No Second Chances. Sometimes It’s Now Or Never.

To Begin With, It's True, She Read With Trepidation And Some Unease. The Sheer Endlessness Of Books Outfaced Her And She Had No Idea How To Go On; There Was No System To Her Reading, With One Book Leading To Another, And Often She Had Two Or Three On The Go At The Same Time.

The Appeal Of Reading, She Thought, Lay In Its Indifference: There Was Something Undeferring About Literature. Books Did Not Care Who Was Reading Them Or Whether One Read Them Or Not. All Readers Were Equal, Herself Included. Literature, She Thought, Is A Commonwealth; Letters A Republic.

Clichés Can Be Quite Fun. That's How They Got To Be Clichés.

Schweitzer In The Congo Did Not Derive More Moral Credit Than Larkin Did For Living In Hull.