2000-10-23 - 7:32 p.m.

Last week, I brought home Edward Gorey's The Unstrung Harp, or Mr Earbrass Writes a Novel, and sat upon the study sofa that evening snickering and sighing in delight. The slyness of the continuity! When did that fantod end up on the mantel? What happened while the snow was falling? And how can something so deliciously, wickedly wry, be so moving?

"Now, at dawn, he stands, quite numb with cold and trepidation, looking at the churning surface of the Channel. He assumes he will be horribly sick for hours and hours, but it doesn't matter. Though he is a person to whom things do not happen, perhaps they may when he is on the other side."