Book of Days


Cucumbers came scrolloping across the grass


“Here’s a quarter. Phone your mother. Tell her you will never be a writer.”

She was beautiful, and funny, and crazy, and she wrote like a dream.

If I could write, I’d write like this:

From Orlando by Virginia Woolf


But what was worse, damp now began to make its way into every house —damp, which is the most insidious of all enemies, for while the sun can be shut out by blinds, and the frost roasted by a hot fire, damp steals in while we sleep; damp is silent, imperceptible, ubiquitous.


Damp swells the wood, furs the kettle, rusts the iron, rots the stone. So gradual is the process, that it is not until we pick up some chest of drawers, or coal scuttle, and the whole thing drops to pieces in our hands, that we suspect even that the disease is at work.


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