Of Course My Standards Are Out Of

Here I Sit, Alone At 60, Bald And Fat And Full Of Sin Cold The Seat, And Loud The Cistern As I Read The (harpic) (lysol) Tin

I Dont Know Whether You've Ever Looked Into A Miner's Eyes For Any Length Of Time, That Is. Because It Is The Loveliest Blue You've Ever Seen. I Think Perhaps That's Why I Live In Ibiza, Because The Blue Of The Mediterranean, You See, Reminds Me Of The Blue Of The Eyes Of Those Doncaster Miners.

Authors, She Soon Decided, Were Probably Best Met Within The Pages Of Their Novels, And Were As Much Creatures Of The Reader's Imagination As The Characters In Their Books. Nor Did They Seem To Think One Had Done Them A Kindness By Reading Their Writings. Rather They Had Done One The Kindness By Writing Them.

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.

Reading Is Untidy, Discursive And Perpetually Inviting.