Such early bookish delights: Christopher Robin dragging his stuffed bear and bumpity bump. Later it was the best of times and the worst of times and bumpity bump.
I play Haydn on the stereo and feel warmth as if whiskey spreads through my torso.
The sea lies so still at dusk. If you have good eyes you can see the lights from ships.
When I say I prefer Keats to Shelley I must say why, at least to myself.
That’s the way with art. Shelley wasn’t much of a man. He was really Holden Caulfield.
The God of books is in the process of transforming me.
Look, some of the bookish creatures have gotten free.