I've just spent a dispiriting evening yesterday attending a party at the
Edinburgh Internationl Book Festival thrown by the 'London Review of Books', a
magazine which, in my opinion, would be better entitled, 'The Review of
London Books'. Somehow, I'd got onto their e-mailing list. Whenever I
go to these things (not often, and now, this morning, I remember just
why that is), it makes me realise just how impossible it would be for
someone like me even for a moment to break over the consciousness of
those people and their institutions. To them, my voice is no more than
that of a barking dog in a distant street.
But I'd rather be a barking dog in the street than a silent mouse in the house.
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