I think about thought, the shape, the size, the sound. I have an idea that thoughts are like words running behind my eyes but when I look for them there, there is nothing. So they must be images. I grasp at shapes in vain,they don't materialize,there is nothing. Perhaps a thought is spoken then? I strain to hear a voice, but there is nothing. I think about the place where thoughts begin and where they end.
And there is nothing.
And nothing there is.
word 2 on page 31
If you think a series of books set in the 1800's about the trials and tribulations of the clergy in a quiet west country town must be the most boring thing you could read, you should think again. Trollope is a superbly observational writer, witty and tender, sharp and soft. Trust me and try him.