Thank you for this peek into Novel on Yellow Paper. I don't think I will ever forget the possiblity of one day becoming "loamishly sad". It almost sounds like good old-fashioned fun!

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It's a fine nostalgic comfortable rainy-day misery, quite picturesque. She's very aware of less appealing forms of suffering:

'And between two people without knowing it a love may grow up, and a link may form, and no one knows or guesses. And so it has been. I did not know. But when it is over, it is over, then it is tearing inside, it is 'tearing in the belly' one would wish oneself dead and unborn. And one does little things and goes to see friends and does one's work and fusses with this and that and feels in one's heart the drift and dribble of penultimate things, and thinks: Tomorrow I shall be dead.'

Just killing. 'Penultimate things' is genius.

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