Fancy being driven to pictures. When I read a novel, I’m looking for this:
and this:
with big hints along the way like:
and this:
I thought I was doing fine with this Coetzee I found in Leiden recently. There’s a woman and she is on a desert island for a while and then she’s rescued and she’s bogged down with Man Friday and Daniel Defoe’s in it writing her story and I thought I got it. But I couldn’t help feeling now and again like:
and trying to figure it all out made things worse.
Frankly, in the end, I felt like I was in the middle of xkcd’s google map directions:
I don’t know, Mr Coetzee. I really don’t know. I wish when I’d got to the lake and saw the trouble ahead, I’d just turned back. I’m going to have a lie down and a nice cup of tea now. That’s if I’m still alive, if I was real. Perhaps the book has the answer to that.
