I am even a bit afraid of the way I read. It’s like mother was when Rowley was coming, eating all the crusts off the bread. She just couldn’t stop eating bread. She’d set a loaf on the table and start cutting all its sides off, then turn it over and carve its bottom off. Then she’d say ‘It’s really dreadful the way I’m eating bread,’ and her arm would come reluctantly out and she’d start carving little bits off the slopes, until the bread stood all naked and white. And after a while she’d say, ‘Oh, dear, I’d love another crust.’
I trust books, and a wild trust is part of the passion.
Reading is food.