Chinese Emerald Green tea on an autumnal (finally) Saturday morning. This last week, Anita Brookner’s first four novels. A cavernous and rich solitude. In several notebooks I have copied a phrase from Plotinus: escape in solitude to the solitary. Brookner’s work is slight but her voice compels, calls to mind something important and lost.
Her books are indeed slender but so much in them – they linger.
They do. Deep inferiority.