Afterward I lay on my bed reading a novel by V. S. Naipaul I had found on sale a few days earlier, it had been in a box outside the bookshop and was called The Enigma of Arrival. I liked it even though there was no plot, just a description of a man who has moved to a house in a remote village in England, everything is alien to him, but slowly he conquers the countryside, or the countryside conquers him. It struck me that you could find rest in the prose, the way you can rest under a tree or in a chair in the garden, and that had a value in itself. Why actually should you write about actions?
