Mark but this flea. — John Donne, ‘The Flea’ Now it is summer, so I read outside and write in my notebook. If I sit beneath a tree, or in the grass, I am interrupted by insects: a fly lands on this page, a spider falls onto my shirt. I’m trying to make sense of why I read, why I’m writing. In their books about writing, Annie Dillard and Marguerite Duras write about little insects: in
On Being Tickled by Insects
On Being Tickled by Insects
On Being Tickled by Insects
Mark but this flea. — John Donne, ‘The Flea’ Now it is summer, so I read outside and write in my notebook. If I sit beneath a tree, or in the grass, I am interrupted by insects: a fly lands on this page, a spider falls onto my shirt. I’m trying to make sense of why I read, why I’m writing. In their books about writing, Annie Dillard and Marguerite Duras write about little insects: in