I'm tired of all this isolation. I'm tired of this triviality of life. I want real human emotion. I want to feel the natural spontaneity of life, the beautiful randomness and rawness that is life. I want to see you and I want you to see me and I want to bask in that moment of humility and intimacy and the acknowledgement of your dignity and my humanity, even if it is for a second. That'll be enough.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to.