Now Reader, don’t go making trouble fixing names to all this. I say thereଁs not a person nor a thing in this book that ever stepped outside of this book. It’s all out of my head. And don’t go looking like a sick cat for wicked envy, it’s a thing you might come to yourself: if you’d got the sort of head I have. And don’t get despairing either. Remember what they said in the thirteen hundreds: ‘Accidie poisons the soul stream’.
(Novel on Yellow Paper, p. 19f.)
It was simple to think of things to write here while I was out for a walk. The actual writing, however, proves troublesome.