“All right, so long as it pleases you.”
“Pleases me? Only that?”
How slow, how slow this was.
“Oh, well. Nice boy.”
“Thanks. But now, do you know what I am going to do now? After all, one must have something to put against one’s name. For I am going to write, yes, to write. Such books, June, such amazing tales, rich with intricate plot. Life will be clotted and I will dissect it, choosing little bits to analyse. I shall be a great writer. I am sure of it.”
“Yes.”
“But I will be. What else is there to live for? Writing means so much to me, and it is the only thing in which the blind are not hampered. There was Milton.”
“Ah yes, Milton.”
“I must justify myself somehow.”
“Funny John.”