bernur

Medan det blåser regn ute läser jag en nyskriven sommarnovell av Jeanette Winterson, "Message in a Bottle", och den handlar förstås om den här sommarens mest framträdande ingrediens ? regnvatten, som översvämmar en kvinna i en bil. Jag njuter ohämmat av hennes spänstigt spännande språk, och blinkar avvärjande mot hennes avväpnande flummerier.   

"When I came round, I was floating quietly down the river-road like Ophelia, like the Lady of Shalott, like Winston Churchill's funeral barge, like the Take That! final tour, like the stones floated down the Thames to build St Paul's Cathedral, like Francis Drake sailing up from Deptford after scuttling the Armada, like a whale, huge on the outside, tiny on the inside, who thinks he can drift slowly past the docks and wharves, turn round at Tower Bridge and go home again, but he never can go home again because he's bigger than he knows, and the river is not so deep as it was once, in the old days, in the stories that one whale tells to another, stories like tubes of glass blown out into the sea."