The Colour and Consistency of Amber

It is too dark in here. The light that my brass lantern causes to seep across the desk seems to have the colour and consistency of amber. I cannot turn it up any brighter so I have just lit a number of tall candles. However, the wicks are already starting to burn low and the flames are guttering and flickering. The dark shadows next to the bookcases seem to be growing deeper and denser with each passing minute. They are pulling things into obscurity even as I write. I cannot see the corners of my room anymore.

It is not light enough to read with any care or precision. Françoise has already chastised me for attempting to work in this gloom. ‘It will only damage your eyes. You have to wear those glasses as it is because of all that close work you do. I wouldn’t work in this light.’ Of course, she doesn’t realise the obligation that these texts have placed me under this evening. How could she? I am only just beginning to realise it myself. And in any case, I am starting to believe that this darkness could bring with it some enlightenment. Maybe by losing my bearings, by being unable to see the critical and theoretical signposts, I will happen across a new path to meaning. Maybe.

A draught has just blown in through the sash of my study window. For a moment it seemed as though it had brought some of the night sky in with it. Actually, I can see that it just blew out one of the candles.

Perhaps I should get a special hat

The rain continues to drum its military tattoo on my study window. Neverthless, I feel pleasantly - and for me quite unusually - positive. Looking down at all these scattered pieces of paper on my desk, the faded and tea-stained covers of old paperbacks, I could almost smile. For, the account that I sent out, the brief description of a critical moment in my own life, has been well received. I never looked for or expected such praise. Indeed, my embarrassment initially stopped me from signing the work. But now I feel emboldened, ready to dare to misinterpret the universe.

I shall turn this study into my office, get frosted glass fitted and put a sign up on the door: 'Dr Holden, The Literary Critical Detective'. Perhaps I should get a special hat.

But that would be absurd. I do not want fame, and can only hope in vain that others will want to consult me upon literary matters. I am no man of action. Although I declared to Francoise a moment ago, when she brought me my drink, that I should make a brilliant new career for myself I realise now that I was wrong. I will be better sitting here quietly, surrounded by the great works of fiction, misreading motivations and making my scribbled notes.

I will, of course, continue to write up my findings, present my cases to those associates who claim to understand my work and who have expressed their desire to follow it. They can contact me through my special postal address, which I've got written down here somewhere but can never remember (there it is - over there, on the side); or they can write their comments on this journal, which I will leave open for them.