My copy of Bennett's first collection of diaries and essays arrived today; I opened it to a random page and came across this passage:
3 March, Yorkshire. I take a version of a script down to Settle to be photocopied. The man in charge of the machine watches the sheets come through. 'Glancing at this,' he says, 'I see you dabble in playwriting.' While this about sums it up, I find myself resenting him for noticing what goes through his machine at all. Photocopying is a job in which one is required to see and not see, the delicacy demanded not different from that in medicine. It's as if a nurse were to say, 'I see, watching you undress, that your legs are nothing to write home about.'
I can already tell that I'm going to like this book.