What had happened to me was not uncommon, I thought. Not in books or in life. There should be, there must be, some well-worn way of dealing with it. Walking like this, of course. But you have to stop, even in a town this size, you have to stop, for cars and red lights. Also, there were people going round in such clumsy ways, stopping and starting, and schoolchildren, like the ones I used to keep in order - so many of them, and so idiotic, with their yelps and yells and the redundancy, the sheer unnecessity of their existence. Everywhere an insult in your face. This is life, everything proclaimed.
Must figure out how she writes, for it's not obvious yet beautiful.
