At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.


A choice of days: essays from Happy days, Newspaper days, and Heathen days (ed. Vintage, 1981)


At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.

At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.

At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.

At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.