Bonnard’s work seems to suggest a hiatus. All of it: as if something is opening, a gap is appearing, something is forming but who knows what yet. I feel as if this is now, to me. So much is happening and so much of it feels unreadable. Impossible to know. More than usual, and life often feels indecipherable to me.

Setting aside a tendency to look for mystery that I have become familiar with to the point it now almost feels fun again, in a way it may once have, I think, when I was a child, I hope I can let this happen.

Meanwhile I am reading Edward St Aubyn’s Double Bind and finding it wonderful. I am incredulous at the Guardian’s news coverage (today lots of football and stories involving Australia. Ukraine? Russia? No. Not really). I look for something on television to make me laugh. Not a lot. Avoid the Guardian’s culture pages, they read like the inside of a sweaty young man’s sock.