How well I know what I mean to do
When the long dark Autumn evenings come,
And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?
With the music of all thy voices, dumb
In life’s November too!
I shall be found by the fire, suppose,
O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age,
While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,
And I turn the page, and I turn the page,
Not verse now, only prose!
— Robert Browning, from “By the Fireside”
Image by Sophie
I’ve had this problem before. Too many great stories to choose from and frozen by indecision.
We read five words on the first page of a really good novel and we begin to forget that we are reading printed words on a page; we begin to see images.
(by Jared Krause)