I ruminate on a novel, like chewing grass. I ruminate only on the novel, all day long, leisurely and contentedly. I discard nothing. My taste has become too corrupted not to savour every milligram. I can recognise a favourite brand, even in a bookshop, from just two or three phrases. I have long since sampled them all. Most are British, American or Spanish in origin. My addiction is so great that, out of a fear that supplies might one fine day be denied to me, that I might be left without provisions, I have started to produce my own. I cultivate only the stuff that I myself like to consume: stories of love and death. My plantation is still green. For the time being, there is enough for me to be able to offer some of it to others, too.