Reflections of a working writer and reader
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His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. Ernest Hemingway on F Scott-Fitzgerald
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Recent Comments
- bhupinder: Wonderfully well written, John ! Always a delight to visit y
- Warwick Paul Onyeama: This is a wonderful photograph that catches a moment in time
- somebadplankton: Sent me to the dictionary for quiffed.
- john baker: Gracias, Bhupinder.
- Bhupinder Singh: Superb, John. The last two lines are superlative.
- Catherine Isolde Eisner: In addition, doesn’t Graham's surname, Hendrick, recall th
- john baker: Thanks, Jim. Your comments and insights are always welcome.
- Jim Murdoch: A lot likeable about this. I hear comedians are often approa
- Mark Patrick Lynch: Thanks, John. It's good to see that Paul Sutherland's man
- john baker: Thanks, Mark. Good to hear from you, and to read your story
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