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And of course, I know she twigged when I was writing poems or bits of a novel. She was so shrewd. I wrote in a college exercise book, and pushed the book in the shelf among the others. But she knew, and she read the things when I wasn’t there. Never did she say anything to me. Nor did I say anything to her. She knew also I always took the scraps of writing to Miriam. Poor Miriam, she always thought them wonderful: otherwise I should never have gone on. But for her, I should probably never have written—I never thought of myself as a writer, or of anything special at all. I thought myself rather clever, after I had passed examinations, but because I was not strong, I thought myself of rather less account than most people: the weakling in health! And if I had never written, I probably should have died soon. The being able to express one’s soul keeps one alive. 去书内
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  • 用户675098 用户675098

    i wrote as a writer because of her,i maybe die if i haven't written which express my soul's thought

    2023-04-24 喜欢(0) 回复(0)

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