The pages are a dirty yellow spotted in dark brown- I bought it when I was fourteen I think, and just pulled it off the library shelves a few days ago. I really deserve a prize for procrastinating, but anyway, it's a really really good book. I should start on the Nick Adams Stories soon too before I leave for the States (though I don't want to go back).
I have this knack of immensely liking authors who've committed suicide. Among my all time favourite few are Sylvia Plath, Ernest H. & Anne Sexton. It's quite interesting having a lingering thought of reading a dead man's writing- like this is all that's left of him. On another random note, the thought of being fat scares me to the bones.
I must go to bed now. Bon nuit!
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