I think -- I'm going to go out and buy flowers and then come back and put on The White Stripes and eat ice-cream. Alright I should really work; but I think I get to do that much. You'd think -- you'd think happiness shouldn't be that fragile, wouldn't you? I'm thinking of Winterson -- was it Art and Lies? -- and the emotional extravagance needed to stay in one place. Or perhaps Scobie in The Heart of the Matter, saying he would regret the tears but never the love. It seems to be that perhaps I should not live my life through books.