“A night-long easterly and a chestnut tree side-swiping the power lines has stilled the house to this: wells of darkness in the hallway, doors opening onto mine shafts of night and us, sitting by firelight, tipping heels of whisky against the flames and the dust. An evening of unfamiliar obstacles, rooms shrunken to the candle's halo, the world lessened. You speak from the shore of the other chair, saying all you really want is to live long enough to be good at the oboe and remembering a fly I saw that morning, vibrating across a window like a tatooist's needle towards the slip of space that was air not glass, I think I understand. That it is after all the small victories that matter, that are in the end, enough.”
Book:Skirrid Hill