She Had Always Been An Unashamed Reader

The Small Things Of Life Were Often So Much Bigger Than The Great Things . . . The Trivial Pleasure Like Cooking, One's Home, Little Poems Especially Sad Ones, Solitary Walks, Funny Things Seen And Overheard.

There Are No Sick People In North Oxford. They Are Either Dead Or Alive. It's Sometimes Difficult To Tell The Difference, That's All.

Oh, But It Was Splendid The Things Women Were Doing For Men All The Time, Thought Jane. Making Them Feel, Perhaps Sometimes By No More Than A Casual Glance, That They Were Loved And Admired And Desired When They Were Worthy Of None Of These Things - Enabling Them To Preen Themselves And Puff Out Their Plumage Like Birds And Bask In The Sunshine Of Love, Real Or Imagined, It Didn't Matter Which.

Once Outside The Magic Circle The Writers Became Their Lonely Selves, Pondering On Poems, Observing Their Fellow Men Ruthlessly, Putting People They Knew Into Novels; No Wonder They Were Without Friends.

I Imagine The Proverb About Too Many Cooks Spoiling The Broth Can Be Applied To Writing As Well As Anything Else. The Poetical Or Literary Broth Is Better Cooked By One Person.