When I’m really into a novel, I’m seeing the world differently during that time - not just for the hour or so in the day when I get to read. I’m actually walking around in a bit of a haze, spellbound by the book and looking at everything through a different prism.
I get out of bed, go over to the window, and look at the night sky. And think about time that can never be regained. I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.
THE HOUSE BOOK | Terence Conran ©1976
For the happiest life, days should be rigorously planned, nights left open to chance.
Bindings designed by Annette Friedrich.
Whether morality is moral is an open question.
The Reader (c.1890). Georges Croegaert (Belgian, Academic, 1848-1923). Oil.
In a richly decorated interior, a lady reads with pleasure one of a number of books and papers immediately available to her in a corner made for reading in comfort. Her current book is well read, as are others, as evidenced by the bent cover and rumpled pages. Her smile indicates her delight in the passage being read.
Thank you also very heartily for the Shakespeare. It will help me not to forget the little English I know, but above all it is so fine. I have begun to read the series of which I knew least, the series of the Kings: I have already read Richard II, Henry IV and half of Henry V. I read without wondering if the ideas of the people of those times were different from our own, or what would become of them if you just set them over against republican and socialist beliefs and so on. But what touches me, as in some novelists of our day, is that the voices of these people, which in Shakespeare’s case reach us from a distance of several centuries, do not seem unfamiliar to us. It is so much alive that you think you know them and see the thing.