My plight drove me to my typewriter. I sat before it, overwhelmed with grief for Arturo Bandini. Sometimes an idea floated harmlessly through the room. It was like a small white bird. It meant no ill-will. It only wanted to help me, dear little bird. But I would strike at it, hammer it out across the keyboard, and it would die in my hands.
Ask the Dust
–Page 23
On another note, I’ve just about given up hope on José Saramago’s Blindness