Thursday, February 23, 2012


Or at least an entry in the Invisible Library:

Then when the door was shut, and he was certain of privacy, he would have out an old writing book, stitched together with the silk stolen from his mother's workbox, and labelled in a round schoolboy hand, "The Oak Tree, A Poem." In this he would write til midnight chimed and long after. But as he scratched out as many as he wrote in, the sum of them was often, at the end of the year, rather less than at the beginning, and it looked as if in the process of writing the poem would be completely unwritten. —Virginia Woolf, Orlando

(From F.S. Sam)

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Blogger Zed said...

Yet another account of ouroborrowings:

10:29 PM  

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