Like the telephone (the strange thing about the telephone is that, in 1892, it appeared like a good idea) is Mum’s proposal of a novel. It’s perfectly clear I cannot write any novel, or even any novel thing. I have no plot. To write a novel we needs a plot, isn’t it? There is no plot. We live in a haven of plotlessness. Everyone knows that.
I am not a so-called doer. At most, I am an epic sleeper. And what will I do if I wake? Tell of nothingness, and wonder at the fuss and commotion and beauty of this world. (I apologise for talking this way but have just been reading Emerson).