This Is Where It All Begins. Everything

There's Something Unnatural About A Woman Finding Babies Or, More Specifically, Conversation About Babies, Boring. They'll Think She's Bitter, Jealous, Lonely. But She's Also Bored Of Everybody Telling Her How Lucky She Is, What With All That Sleep And All That Freedom And Spare Time, The Ability To Go On Dates Or Head Off To Paris At A Moments Notice. It Sounds Like They're Consoling Her, And She Resents This And Feels Patronized By It.

She Drinks Pints Of Coffee And Writes Little Observations And Ideas For Stories With Her Best Fountain Pen On The Linen-white Pages Of Expensive Notebooks. Sometimes, When It's Going Badly, She Wonders If What She Believes To Be A Love Of The Written Word Is Really Just A Fetish For Stationery.

It's The Face Itself That I Love, Not That Face At Twenty-eight Or Thirty-four Or Forty-three. It's That Face.

I Know That For Every Reader Who Has Lost The Habit Or Can't Find The Time, There Are People Who've Never Enjoyed Reading And Question The Value Of Literature, Either As Entertainment Or Education, Or Believe That A Love Of Books, And Of Fiction In Particular, Is Sentimental Or Frivolous.

He's Laughing Me Into A Stupor, She Thought. I Could Heckle, I Suppose, I Could Throw A Bread Roll At Him, But He's Eaten Them All. She Glanced At The Other Diners, All Of Them Going Into Their Act, And Thought Is This What It All Boils Down To? Romantic Love, Is This All It Is, A Talent Show? Eat A Meal, Go To Bed, Fall In Love With Me And I Promise You Years And Years Of Top Notch Material Like This?