Penelope Fitzgerald
For some reason all I want to do is read writers named Penelope lately. What the hell is going on?
Anyway, here is Penelope Fitzgerald (who did not start her career as a novelist until she was nearly sixty) from Human Voices:
“When middle E was set Annie left the spot where he had put her, the warmest place, close to the stove, and stood at his elbow, willing him to play the first trial chord. It was a recurrent excitement of her life, like opening a boiled egg, the charm being not in its unexpectedness but its reliability. And Mr Asra struck the chord of C … .
With the bass she felt more at ease. There was danger, that if a string broke it couldn’t be replaced and had to be spliced there and then, but the tuning itself was easier, the strings ran easily and willingly over the bridges, and their warm growl took her downwards into a region of dark fur-covered animals crowned with gold who offered their kindly protection to the sleepy traveller.”
