Saturday, May 12, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
When she came to this country her body had stopped growing, her bones had accepted enough Antipeodian deposit to last until her death, her hair that once flamed ginger in the southern sun was fading and dust-coloured in the new hemisphere, and she was thirty, unmarried except for a few adulterous months with an American writer (self-styled) who woke in the morning, said
- I write best on an empty stomach,
pulled a small piece of paper from his tweed coat hanging on the end of the double bed, and wrote one line.