Last night I spent a very restful and absorbing evening with a small book by Katherine Mansfield. Her Letters and Journals, edited by CK Stead, another New Zealander. The cover is a painting by one of KM's friends. Reminds me slightly of an edition of Anna Akhmatova's poetry with a painting of a similar era on that cover. Similar hairstyle?
Her experience of tuberculosis is striking. It is not the book that is particularly restful (I was drawn on and on by the progress of her disease and her writing, and her relationships) but the complete absence of devices during the evening. The evening felt luxuriant, not a constant chase of the next visual hit.