Why did this strange book come so near, nearer than any others, so that you _felt_ the writing, felt the sentences as if you were writing them yourself? He was a sad pained man, all wrong; bothered and tragic about things, believing in sad black horror. Then why did he come so near? Perhaps because life was sad. Perhaps life was really sad. No; it was somehow the writing, the clearness. That was the thing. He himself must be all right, if he was so clear. Then it was dangerous, dangerous to people like Mrs. Corrie and Joey who would attend only to what he said, and not to him ... sadness or gladness, saying things were sad or glad did not matter; there was something behind all the time, something inside people. That was why it was impossible to pretend to sympathise with people. You don’t have to sympathise with authors; you just get at them, neither happy nor sad; like talking, more than talking. Then that was why the people who wrote moral stories were so awful. They were standing behind the pages preaching at you with smarmy voices.... Bunyan?... No.... He preached to himself too ... crying out his sins.... He did not get between you and himself and point at a moral. An author must show himself. Anyhow, he can’t help showing himself. A moral writer only sees the mote in his brother’s eye. And you see him seeing it. 11 A long letter to Eve.... Eve would think that she was showing off. But she would be excited and interested too, and would think about it a little. If only she could make Eve see what a book was ... a dance by the author, a song, a prayer, an important sermon, a message. Books were not stories printed on paper, they were people; the real people; ... “I prefer books to people” ... “I know now why I prefer books to people.” 12 “... I do wish you’d tell me more about your extraordinary days. You must have extraordinary days. I do. Perhaps everyone has. Only they don’t seem to know it!”