![]() ![]() But now it turns out that someone or something may have been reading over my shoulder, that I haven’t been quite so alone as I’d imagined, that Becky and I and her circle may have had some silent, unsuspected, uninvited company. And in an age in which our email messages can be perused by the NSA and our Facebook posts are scanned for clues to our habits and our desires, what joy and a relief it is, to escape into a book and know that no one is watching. Solitude is and has always been an essential component of reading many children become readers in part to enjoy the privacy it offers. Lately, I’ve been reading Vanity Fair, and among the profound pleasures it provides is the mysterious, almost indescribable sensation of being alone with Becky Sharp and her coterie of unfortunate rivals and hapless admirers. ![]() Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover with fellow passengers surreptitiously watching, London, November 3, 1960 ![]()
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