A book I've read a long time ago and I didn't like, mostly because (I've thought..) it wasn't a book for teenagers. Forty years after, grown up and with some more patience, the result is sadly the same. The style is a pastiche of Mark Twain, O. Henry and later Jaroslav Hasek' Svejk, but their characters have humor or wisdom, if not both of them. Jerome's ones are clumsy, malignant and grudge-bearing, their stupidity being shown in their "adventure" with the pineapple can or the potatoes peeling, not to say more.
Perhaps you should be an English native, in order to enjoy more the spirit of the novel, as Jerome's help in this direction is sometimes more than minimal. One of the best examples is Harris and his comic songs: if you are able to produce even the faintest smile reading his happening it means your sense of humor is gigantic. Sadly (or perhaps not) that's not my case...

What a brilliant book! If you are looking to the perfect follow up to The Pickwick Papers this is your genre. See what J (the narrator), George (the man with the orange red blazer), Harris and not to be forgotten Montmorency (the dog) experience on their picnic, camping and boat trip on the River Thames through the English countryside. If you know some places of the area described (like me) you see every step in full detail before your mental eye. Those episodes are so funny that you have a broad grin upon your face in every chapter: The episode with the cheese, the anglers' lore with the trout, the failed opening of the can, bad weather and so on (there are also some fine illustrations in the edition I read). Every mishap possible seems to occur to our Pickwickian heroes here. Splendid humour. Or the episode when they came back to London... you simply have to read that episodic book and have one of the best laughs ever. Absolutely recommended!

If you're looking for a book with a plot, this is not for you. But if you'd like to take a leisurely trip down the Thames in good company, I can't imagine a better book. Jerome K. Jerome, is even funnier than his name. I kept catching myself smiling as I read his account of his trip down the river with his two equally lazy buddies and his dog Montmorency. The book was actually less about the trip itself than a collection of daydreams and random stories pulled together in much the same manner as a really great dinner conversation with good friends. He spends a lot of the book light-heartedly poking fun at his own laziness and hypochondria. For example:
"I can't sit still and see another man slaving and working. I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with my hands in my pockets, and tell him what to do. It is my energetic nature. I can't help it."

He also frequently jokes around about his writing:
“Just when we had given up all hope -- yes, I know that is always the time that things do happen in novels and tales; but I can’t help it. I resolved, when I began to write this book, that I would be strictly truthful in a ll things; and so I will be, even if I have to employ hackneyed phrases for the purpose.”

His writing is actually a lot like a river itself. It meanders all over the place, yet flows along very pleasantly. I'd call it stream-of-consciousness (no pun intended) but its not as pretentious and unpunctuated as that style usually is.

I laughed so hard at parts of this that my stomach hurt. The self-important narrator, oblivious to his own inconsistencies and nonsense, is a hoot -- to say nothing of the dog. Veddy veddy British, and a complete delight from start to finish.

3,5 stars



Honestly, I am here because of the delightful To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis made me see the light and realise that I simply cannot go on in my humble existence any more without reading this book.

And I have been putting off reading it ever since university days which are hidden in the mistily veiled paths of the distant past, etcetera.....

Also, as a Hungarian, I felt somewhat honour-bound to finally finish a book by an English author who was named after (Klapka in the "K.", in case you were not aware :) of one of our heroic generals in the Hungarian War of Indepence.

Was it worth the wait? Yes, mostly.

The three men in the boat (obviously in a dashing Victorian boating attire)



read like 3 times the quintessential Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, alas, without the inimitable Jeeves, and with a dog, who is quite a character, but does nothing to help, so you can imagine the shenanigans they get into.



JEEVES, WHERE ART THOU in their greatest hours of need?!

It made me chuckle and smile a lot, though I had to stop from time to time, as it proved just a bit too much occasionally.

Excellent narration by Ian Carmichael and currently this edition is included in the US Audible+ catalogue.

This is set in 19th Century London where three men and a dog go on a boat trip. It was supposed to be a travel book but became a laugh-riot instead.

The writing was brilliant and I found myself laughing a lot. There isn't exactly a plot but it is full of heart-warming, some awkward and funny bits. I loved it.

4 stars

гумористичні замальовки про невдалу подорож Темзою трьох гіпертрофовано непристосованих до самостійного життя панів (і одного невихованого гавчика!) моя особиста затишна й тепла ковдрочка: сміявсь як і вперше, а може й навіть голосніше. обов’язково повернуся сюди ще, бо як можна нє?

на друге перечитування дуже здивувався кількості історичних посиланнячок та ліричних відступів, бо минулого разу вся ця гордовита піднесеність тексту промайнула повз мене. виявляється, книжка задумувалась як гід і тревелог, але Джером Клапка Джером десь надибав цілу купу файних анекдотів про тогочасний англійський побут, тож довелося робити pivot. найкраще рішення.

p.s. містер Поджер is my spirit animal

Three young gentlemen and I use that word very loosely are desperate to get away from the fast pace tensions of every day 19th Century London life ( the horror !). And go someplace else, they should have stayed put indeed. The men need a long rest, they're quite run down but from what though ? The boys don't actually work much, these hypochondriacs I mean sick men just want to have a little fun. J.(Jerome) thinks he has every illness in the book and he's read it too, except housemaid's knee. That J. doesn't have, worries him immensely so leave the city or the end is near thinks the almost wise man. The other members of this desperate, oddball trio are J.'s friends George and Harris , don't forget Montmorency . The liveliest of the group he has four legs, is terribly short with a small tail, angers easily is always ready for a fight. Guarding everyone, this brave young man ( not technically) he's really a fox-terrier. After a considerable discussion a leisurely boat trip (of two weeks) up the Thames River sounds delightful, only smart Montmorency objects. But is outvoted 3 to 1, being a team player the irritated dog sorry Montmorency decides to join the others. They will row and tow and go, nothing can be a better vacation? Packing and unpacking causes a little difficulty J, is the best at this kind of exercise. And proud of his talents does the honors. While Harris and George lazily look on, comfortably sitting on their big posteriors supervising, both sleepily say. They are hard working men no doubt ...The two proclaim numerous times ... Poor J, someone is invariably losing an article so he opens the bag and searches again and again, the humongous thing. I'm afraid the boys got carries away, and putting just a little too much in ... At last the trio...the four, are on the river. Slowly rowing up, their boat struggling against the dangerous current, as disaster looms everywhere yet now a miracle happens muscles soon develop, they become strong, hardy, brave gentlemen getting fresh air and healthy again ... Two row one steers, ( Montmorency must be the captain) guess which job the boys like the most. Harris has a slight accident, a tumble in the vessel legs up in the air, still being such a great sailor stays on board. The picturesque view of the ever changing stream is worth all the trouble ... Small lovely villages, that seem quaint from another era however, I wouldn't drink the water there. Looking ... on the calm brownish river the red sunset, the yellow light shining on the waters, the purple sky above as the dark night closes in and bright stars appearing ... Roughing it on shore, sleeping in their boat, with a cozy cover over them just as good as a bed, camping out how grand ... And exceptional entertainment too, a friend's Banjo playing ... doing his best. The singing by all, rather splendid...almost, taking a freezing dip in the inviting river before breakfast, trying to open a can of delicious pineapples unsuccessfully... and seeing how far you could throw it across the Thames ( WHAT SPORT). On the river in the boat as the cold rains come pouring down, drenched together, dodging the big steamers and receiving many curses , almost killed yes the fun of it. Luckily Montmorency is there too ... A gentle charming, satire on the English way of life that is no more...very entertaining for people who enjoy people and all their peculiarities.

a taste:

the members have spoken: Three Men in a Boat will be our first group read. if it goes well, we can read other books together and see what we learn.

so, again, the point of our reading a book together is so we can all learn how to extract appeal factors from a text, and learn how to discuss books in a way that is relevant to a readers' advisory scenario.

the deadline for finishing the book is june 1st.
i will be posting some information on here from NoveList, which will be useful to glance over before starting the book, just to help get a sense of what kinds of things to be on the lookout for.

are we excited?

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okay - they changed my schedule this week, so i have to go in earlier than planned, but i will be able to pop in periodically to contribute the discussion.

so it's not about whether we liked it or not - for our own personal selves, that's great, but the questions that we should focus on are more: what are the appeal factors? what are the features of this book? to whom would we suggest this book? to whom would we absolutely not suggest this book? i posted some stuff in the thread directly below this if you are looking for some appropriate keywords/starting points.

and i will be back on ASAP...


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i would not recommend it to anyone looking for a prolonged narrative; it is definitely more a collection of episodic happenings.

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ummmmm no, i think it is very fast-paced. they are always bopping off to one thing or the other. there are sections where it slows down a little, when nature is described, but those sections are not very numerous


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you're not at all horrible!! this is how we are learning! and since it's just you and me there's no pressure!



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but it is a convenient frame to show off these characters in their laziness and quirkiness.

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i still think it is character-driven because it is the way these characters view their surroundings that drives the plot, and their innumerable asides...

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yeah, it's definitely a very specific type of humor. that's why RA is so difficult when it comes to humor because everyone's got their own ideas about what that means. so many people just don't respond to british humor.

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i think there are enough silly episodes for it to escape the highbrow label. "there's a man in my bed!!"
"what shall we put in the stew!!" "oh nooooo what is happening??"

ooh, and we forgot about writing style, which i think would be conversational, witty, and engaging

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see what a genius you are!! i didn't even remember your list (i am at work so a little distracted), i just went to the page. JEEEENIUS!


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well, there were parts of it that were slower; when i get home i will have my copy and will show examples. but slow-paced books tend to have a lot of description, and long passages where there is just no actual action happening. something can be fast-paced and not be riveting if you are just not into the story....

i will try to be clearer when i get home...

or someone with the book there can do it if they understand what i am trying to say...


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no, you are absolutely right. this book is something of an anomaly because the tone of it is so breezy and the sections are rather brief. maybe i am wrong though, this could be a whole discussion if anyone's game.

there's not really any cause-and-effect beyond each individual section, either, so i think it makes it seem more like tiny little stories stitched together. but this is just my impression


confused?? come hang out in my amazing RA group!! help me get better at leading discussions!!

http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/5...

Three Men in a Pastiche: To Say Nothing of the Boat

Three tourists - A spicy meal - The effects of a typhoon - Picasso's masterpiece - Random thoughts on helicopters - The joys of being on land

Three young men were waiting at the docks to be picked up by a ferry boat. The first of these men is Ted, a man widely praised for his lust for action. It is in his hands, his feet, his nose and other such things that the essence of his being lies. He is said to be the only man who is able to act more quickly than he thinks, regardless of the fact that he does the latter so swiftly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all. This ability is most surprising in combination with his stubbornness to survive the whole business that is life with such bravado. He's a decentralised affair that would send many great communists in a frenzy, with his left hand doing a complicated thing with a phone while talking to a woman while his right eye is looking at his left foot as it kicks someone in the behind, with no apparent logic threading these disparate actions together into what one hopes can be called a "harmonious life" at the end of it all.
The second man whose behind was just briefly mentioned is Earl. Earl is of a different nature altogether, so while his brother is widely praised for action, he is widely praised for nothing whatsoever. That is in part because kind hearts receive no praise in these cold and vicious times and because in a world where actions speak louder than words, he's got nothing to speak for him. He thinks before he acts, but he does the former so slowly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all, thereby allowing observers to give credence to the notion that he is his brother's brother after all.
The third man who was accompanying these brothers is what one could call the happy medium, though he himself prefers to be referred to as the Golden Mean, since it has got a far less mundane ring to it. An astute observer with a charm that has enthralled entire ballrooms, a companionable polymath with the kind of razor-sharp wit that enlivens many conversations, a man that couples thinking to action like internet dating sites couple lovers to psychopaths, he is a man that is mostly known for his humility despite his many other talents. That third and quite frankly ravishingly handsome man is, as you may have surmised, your humble narrator.

As we were sitting at the dock waiting for the ferry boat that would take us from one paradisiac island to the next, a pang of hunger got the better of me. A small food stand that was intelligently placed in the vicinity of the waiting space caught my attention and I sped towards it as rapidly as a crocodile would chase Louis Vuitton. Earl shouted some warnings as I went, relating to the poor quality of the overpriced food and the questionable hygiene and other such trifles that are exceedingly insignificant to a hungry man. I ordered some noodles with chicken and upon being asked if I wanted it spicy I requested it to be the Golden Mean of Spicy, where small tears of joy well up as your throat emits a gentle warmth and your tongue tingles in delight. Despite this elaborate explanation the vendor had misconstrued my meaning and served me with what once were the contents of the now dormant Mount Vesuvius. Appearances would have it that this devious man had scooped up the insides of this legendary volcano and decided to pour them on my chicken noodles in great quantities. I would have uttered an objection to his recipe, had it not been that my voice had made way for a column of blazing hellfire that only the steady stream of my salty tears could hope to put out. Miraculously I averted slipping into a coma and made my way back to my friends, just in time to get on the boat. As I regained the first traces of the power of thought, I ruminated on those tales of firebreathing dragons and thought it very logical that they always seemed in such bad spirits and further considered it to their benefit that they hadn't been expected to actually exist.

It was a big ferry, and a fast one, if one could trust the pictures that adorned its flanks. On them the ferry was flying over the whiteheaded waves across a sky blurry with birds, clouds and rays of light. It was a white streak across a blue canvas that would make the most celebrated action painter, if ever there were such a thing, envious. As we settled down in the seats I mentioned to my friends that I have been known to get seasick, both as a warning as well as a supplication for comfort. I was met with a boatload of encouraging remarks. Ted pointed to the sunny sky and said that if the weather would be any calmer it would be mistaken for Earl. Earl pointed to the tiny waves and said that the only thing that could stir up a sea so calm would be Ted's feet after a cup of coffee. Thus it was with an easy mind that I heard the engines start up and we left the safety of the docks.

Not five minutes had passed since we left the island when the sea changed its mind. Even though it was leisurely bathing in the sun only moments before, it now seemed to get itself into quite a state, as if suddenly recalling an important deadline or being roused up by a hysterical pregnant woman during an otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon. As the waves got higher and the bumps got rougher, my visage must have gone through fifty shades of green. It had just settled on pistachio green with touches of grey and yellow when Ted and Earl gave me some concerned looks. Ted, who was sitting next to me, seemed mostly concerned for his trousers being in the line of fire in case my disconcerting complexion was but the forerunner of more imposing symptoms, while Earl himself didn't seem to possess the iron stomach he thought he did. Ted decided to get up on the roof of the ferry and get some fresh air, while Earl settled for a trip to the head. For some reason boats don't have kitchens or toilets but consist of "galleys" and "heads" instead. I have since come to believe these terms find their ancestors in the words "gallows" and "beheadings" and other such references to painful deaths, considering the entire construction makes one consider public executions as a blissful means of escape from that infernal vessel. To add insult to injury the seafaring folk devised the system of "nautical miles", giving false hope with regards to the distance one needs to traverse before being once again graced with land under one's feet.

I would have gotten up as well and followed my companions outside, if only to throw myself into the sea under a lonely cry of despair, had not the adage of "you are what you eat" proved itself to be true as my legs slowly turned into the limp noodles I had eaten only moments before. A voice on the intercom informed the passengers of a typhoon that had been raging many miles away, a natural disaster of which we were now feeling the comparably tiny side effects. I had heard of the effect a small flutter of a butterfly's wings could have over great distances, so it came as no surprise that a typhoon should bring about catastrophic consequences on my feeble constitution. In response to the storm that had raged over fisherman's villages and quaint coastlines far away, ruining shelters and holidays alike, my stomach churned in empathy and cried for a prompt evacuation of its own residents. I've always thought of myself as a kind man with a good heart, but it appears that my stomach is my most sympathetic organ. It made me wonder if all that connected the wise and noble prophets of our great religions was that they all had a weak stomach in the face of misery, rather than a heart of gold.

One of the seamen with a keen eye for discoloured faces had offered me a black, plastic bag that reeked of chemicals. Before I could even consider the idea of wrapping it over my head and letting the lack of oxygen put me out of my wretchedness, I had filled it up with my lunch, sadly noting that it had lost none of its spicy spunk before its return voyage. The fire was back and with a vengeance, as this time it seemed to have found the way through my nose as well. I cried silent and bitter sobs, my eyes red with burning tears, my cheeks grey, my forehead yellow and my chin dripping with green drops hovering over a black bag. I fancy I must have looked like my portrait if I had chosen to commission it to Pablo Picasso.

In the meanwhile Earl had ventured outside and apparently had had the same idea to simply jump into the sea and hope that Heaven was a real place. He had lost his nerve at the last moment and held to the railing while being splashed by the cold water and attacked by an evil wind. Trembling, he welcomed this agony as it made him forget the reality of Hell that was his own body. His belly seemed to host the devil himself and all his minions, intent on entering this world post-haste. During the first convulsions Earl somehow still had the clarity of mind and the good fortune to find a vacant toilet bowl and lay next to it as long as necessary. He locked himself in and didn't mind the outrage of all the people, equally sick, rapping on the door. If this torment would last much longer he would offer himself up as a sacrifice to the murderous mass and do it all with a contented smile.

On the upper deck Ted was feeling a bit queasy. He resolved to look at the horizon and fell asleep shortly after.

I was working on filling up my fifth bag and had already gone over all possible solutions. Jumping off the boat was no longer an option and I could find no way to the Gates of Heaven with the limited tools at my disposal. No matter how hard I wished for a gun, the only thing that would be delivered was another plastic bag. Even though the evacuation of my stomach had been a resounding success, with not a single entity still present in that godforsaken place, the safety mechanisms seemed to prefer to make absolutely certain no noodle would be left behind. I think I have left my very soul in that last bag. Given the absence, thanks to lazy scientists all over the world, of immediate teleportation, my only hope was a helicopter, swooping down from the sky like an angel and taking me to golden shores. Who would have thought that such a ludicrous contraption would be the main flicker of hope during my darkest times? It looks like a curiously constructed metallic fish with a sad flower on its head, whirring through the skies in search of a place where it doesn't look ridiculous. Finding that such a place does not exist, some good souls resolved to paint big white circles with an "H" in the middle to give the mechanical monstrosity at least some semblance of a home. And yet it was this silly thing that I longed for in my last and most difficult moments on that diabolical boat on an equally satanic sea.

After what according to my estimations must have been twenty-six eternities, we finally reached the harbour and were assisted to come to land. Once there it was with surprising ease that I found the will to live again, which was followed up by a healthy appetite and the desire to share my story with my companions. Earl had easily made his way through the angry mob, for they had helpfully decided to collapse outside of the toilet in a last effort to get the better of the motions of the sea. We looked into each other's eyes and found therein the understanding that we had been in hell, and survived. Ted merely agreed by saying that he found the trip, on the whole, rather uncomfortable, and that it would probably be best if we took a plane for the return trip. However aggravating his equanimity, both Earl and I hugged him in a moment of joyous relief and didn't let go until he punched us both in the ear. Oh, we were so happy, happy to live, happy to be on land, happy to note that regardless of everything that ferry had put us through, it did deliver on its promise to take us to Paradise.

Cuando empecé la lectura de esta novela me encontraba viendo, todavía lo estoy, la serie completa de The office en su versión estadounidense, una de las mejores series cómicas de la historia mundial. Bien, pues poco hay en esa ficción que no estuviera ya en la obra de Jerome... si exceptuamos a la encantadora, bella y delicada Pam.

Salvando ese pequeño aunque no despreciable detalle, esta novela posee una característica que, por inusual, debe ser resaltada y ponderada como se merece. Me refiero, claro está, a que «Tres hombres en una barca» es de esos infrecuentes relatos que, llevando a cuestas durante años la fama de ser muy divertido, resulta ser, en efecto, muy divertido. Pensarán que exagero, que esto es de todo punto insólito, y es cierto, pero no les puedo decir otra cosa sin faltar a la verdad.

Stella Gibbons apunta en el prólogo a la edición de Blackie Books que he tenido el gran placer de leer que uno de los motivos de tan extraño suceso se debe a la satisfacción que lectores de todo el mundo han experimentado durante años al ser testigos del sufrimiento de estos tres personajes, una observación tan perspicaz como muchas de las que encontrarán en la novela, y a la que yo añado otros dos puntos igual de relevantes, a saber, lo hilarante que es observar al prójimo envuelto en situaciones ridículas de las que el prójimo ni siquiera es consciente y la maravillosa sensación que a uno le recorre el cuerpo al corroborar, algo nada sorprendente por otro lado, la siempre infravalorada estupidez ajena.

Todo muy de agradecer pues, al comparar, uno se siente menos mal con la forma en la que la vida le va tratando, a pesar de todo, y lo inteligentes que hemos tenido la suerte de nacer, hechos siempre muy agradables de constatar, y que no se ven empañados por el también imperativo reconocimiento de que hasta sujetos de la catadura de los tres barqueros puedan darnos más de una lección de sentido común y callarnos la boca.

n   “…los que han hecho la prueba dicen que una conciencia tranquila proporciona felicidad y alegría, pero un estómago lleno consigue los mismos resultados con más facilidad y por menos dinero.” n

Lo que, sin menospreciar los placeres que proporciona un suculento banquete, también es aplicable al hecho de leer novelas como esta.

n  "¡Tira el lastre por la borda, compañero! Que la barca de tu vida sea ligera, equipada solo con lo necesario: un hogar sencillo, placeres simples, uno o dos amigos que merezcan tal nombre, alguien a quien amar y alguien que te ame, un perro, un gato, una o dos pipas, lo justo para alimentarte, lo justo para vestirte y un poco más de lo justo para beber, pues la sed es peligrosa." n

Amén.

"It was the best of ideas, it was the worst of ideas."

Three men who are the best of friends agree they are overworked and need rest. They hit on the best of ideas – to take a boating vacation on the Thames from Kingston upon Thames to Oxford and back to Kingston. Two weeks on ‘the rolling deep’ sounds like fun.

The narrator, J. (the author himself), George, Harris, and Montmorency, make plans to go up the river for ‘fresh air, exercise and quiet.’ They expect to work up a good appetite and to sleep well. I wondered why the title was Three Men In A Boat when four names were mentioned. Then I learned in Chapter 2 that Montmorency is a dog and every inch as loony as the three men.

That this getaway may turn out to be the worst of ideas began as soon the party sat down to pack for the trip. It was hilarious watching them throw together food, clothing, a kettle, and a whole barrage of paraphernalia they need. There was J. obsessing that he has forgotten to pack his toothbrush, with endless opening and closing of luggage to check and check again. I thought they will never get off for the trip. Finally, 'Home at last on the waters for two weeks!' I was really excited for them.

As one would expect, they bicker and fight over who will scull and tow the boat, cook the meals, and wash up, and where to camp for the night. I laughed reading about three men who cannot peel a potato to save their lives trying to cook an Irish stew. And to think they half contemplated adding to the garish concoction a water rat offered by Montmorency. Then there is a tantalizing can of pineapples they long to eat and they have no can opener. Oh, that episode was priceless.

Folks who have spent time boating down a weir will appreciate the demands of sculling and towing, and the misadventures that can happen. With the three men, everything that can go wrong goes diabolically wrong. I felt relief whenever their boat was safely anchored and they could finally settle down for supper.

Comedy aside, this is an interesting travelogue that carries some gorgeous description of scenery along the Thames. I googled the Knight Templars and the Bisham Abbey, once home to Anne of Cleves and Princess Elizabeth (later Queen Elizabeth). I looked up pictures of a double-sculling skiff and even watched a Youtube video of how to work a lock on a river.

When the novel ended, I was sorry that the trip was over. But I suspect the three men and their dog were hugely relieved. What an unholy, madcap trinity plus one lovable dog!

Some quotes which I enjoyed:

A new day
‘It was a glorious morning, late spring or early summer, as you care to take it, when the dainty sheen of grass and leaf is blushing to a deeper green; and the year seems like a fair young maid, trembling with strange, wakening pulses on the brink of womanhood.’

Making tea
‘We put the kettle on to boil, up in the nose of the boat, … and pretended to take no notice of it… That is the only way to get a kettle to boil up the river. If it sees that you are waiting for it and are anxious, it will never even sing. You have to go away and begin your meal, as if you were not going to have any tea at all. You must not even look round at it. Then you will soon hear it sputtering away, mad to be made into tea.’

After a meal
‘How good one feels when one is full - how satisfied with ourselves and with the world! People who have tried it, tell me that a clear conscience makes you very happy and contented; but a full stomach does the business quite well, and is cheaper, and more easily obtained. One feels so forgiving and generous after a substantial and well-digested meal - so noble-minded, so kindly-hearted.’

Night
‘Night’s heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.’

Work
‘I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours.’