It Is Shaming Sometimes How The Body

I Find It Very Difficult To Talk About Unwritten Works. It's Never Useful To Start Putting Words Casually Around The Flimsiest Of Notions. I Finished Saturday Only In Late November And I'm Now In The Rather Pleasant Stage Of Traveling, Reading And Waiting.

I Turned The Pages So Fast. And I Suppose I Was, In My Mindless Way, Looking For A Something, Version Of Myself, A Heroine I Could Slip Inside As One Might A Pair Of Favourite Shoes.

And Feeling Clever, I've Always Thought, Is Just A Sigh Away From Being Cheerful.

Oh, I've Become Immune To The Booker. I Think We Need Something A Little More Like The Pulitzer Prize, Where There Isn't This Great Race.

Had It Taken Her This Long To Discover That She Lacked Some Simple Mental Trick That Everyone Else Had, A Mechanism So Ordinary That No One Ever Mentioned It, An Immediate Sensual Connection To People And Events, And To Her Own Needs And Desires? All These Years She Had Lived In Isolation Within Herself And, Strangely, From Herself, Never Wanting Or Daring To Look Back.