Why this absence…? What produces this emptiness in me? Where have been gone the songs of the birds or the pattering of the rain against the window? And my world…? Where is it?
Evening is falling, the sun is low. The birds retreat in flocks. I lean out to the window and a cold breeze cuts my face. In the distance a farmer returns to his house and disappears when the path hides behind the trees. Then I find myself alone again. I miss my readings, they give me life. Every book a new me a different world far from these four walls; no borders, no limits. How rough life seems in this long absence of good books.
JANE AUSTEN