He was a keen mountaineer and invented a detachable and reversible sole with studs or cleats to put on his boots: the short studs in front and the long ones behind for going uphill, the other way round for coming down. Of course he had loves and dislikes and perhaps hates, but these he did not indulge because he had not chosen them: the main tissue, vascular and structural, of his life was of likes. Like “a single crowing consists of four component notes, i.e., of four major energy peaks, sometimes rendered onomatopoeically as cock-a-doodle-doo”; like “Quantity Noodle and Cheese Loaf”; or the fortune-cookie fortune once:
It is kind of fun
to do the impossible.
Between the printed lines his eyes pined for and found—or penned—others. “To modify the library with a tiny incision”: the only serious reader is the pleasure reader. Threads, needles, eyelets like words, binding with care or roughly any body in here. The light went deep, the sea was clear, but he was lost.
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