Being A Decent Human Being Will Require

A Moment Passed, Perhaps Half A Second When Their Faces Said What They Felt, And Then Emma Was Smiling, Laughing, Her Arms Around His Neck.

The Attraction Of A Life Devoted To Sensation, Pleasure And Self Would Probably Wear Thin One Day, But There Was Still Plenty Of Time For That Yet.

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

She Made A Firm Resolution, One Of The Resolutions She Was Making Almost Daily These Days. No More Sleepovers, No More Writing Poetry, No More Wasting Time. Time To Tidy Up Your Life. Time To Start Again.

…she Was Discovering Once Again That Reading And Writing Were Not The Same — You Couldn't Just Soak It Up Then Squeeze It Out Again.