Carey

His book sat on the shelf for years. I would never imagine picking it up and reading any words from it. Title is all I knew. It was as much part of the room as the chipped skirting board and the eye in the wood on the door that looked like a fingerprint, a whorl.

Now I meet him in print twenty years on and I hear he says that love is like a salty sea, and I like this. He relaxes with Larazapam...read on. And that every 100 pages or so he has sex. His face is oh...so normal and his hair is just grey. Nothing remarkable about this man. Bob Dylan, he says, can play whatever he likes at his funeral.

And that she knows she is the love of his life.

I might pick up the story of the Cornish son of a Plymouth Brethren minister and the young Australian heiress who buys a glass factory.