This one goes with the toenail-painting blunder. You know your brain is going when you start calling friends by the wrong name. The other day, when I said—
A Room of One’s Own, which I somehow never got around to meeting until last year, became at once a close friend, Anne-and-Diana close, a book I felt I’d known all my life before I was three chapters in. It is for me an August book, to be reserved for a certain kind of sun-drenched day, when the air is heavy but the heart is light.
—I meant, of course, A Room with a View, a golden book, not a gray one. A Room of One’s Own is February reading, and we are only on gravely polite terms.
Who Lived in this House?
I should have been a librarian
Ichabod Is Itchy and So Am I