To begin with, it's true, she read with trepidation and some unease. The sheer endlessness of books outfaced her and she had no idea how to go on; there was no system to her reading, with one book leading to another, and often she had two or three on the go at the same time.

So boring you fall asleep halfway through her name.

Those who have known the famous are publicly debriefed of their memories, knowing as their own dusk falls that they will only be remembered for remembering someone else.

It's subjunctive history. You know, the subjunctive? The mood used when something may or may not have happened. When it is imagined.

...she felt about reading what some writers felt about writing: that it was impossible not to do it and that at this late stage of her life she had been chosen to read as others were chosen to write.

You don't put your life into your books, you find it there.

I'm all in favour of free expression provided it's kept rigidly under control.