“Every book is an image of solitude. It is a tangible object that one can pick up, put down, open, and close, and its words represent many months, if not many years, of one man’s solitude...”
...the ripening of grapes on the vine, the soft lull of bees, the scent of roses in bloom, a hard book in my hand, and the warm sun on my breasts... reading in the garden is a sensual feast.
