"But reading classics is generally hard going".
"But after 6 weeks influenza my mind throws up no matutinal fountains.
My note book lies by my bed unopened. At first I could hardly read for
the swarm of ideas that rose involuntarily. I had to write them out at
once. And this is great fun. A little air, seeing the buses go by,
lounging by the river, will, please God, send the sparks flying again.
I am suspended between life & death in an unfamiliar way. Where is my
paper knife? I must cut Lord Byron".
What is speaking here a fever, her creative spirit or a touch of
hypomania?
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