I recognised the voice calling for help
from the quicksand as belonging to a
critic who had scanted my book. No one
else was near and, realising his fate might
depend on my actions, I took time to
carefully consider the situation
before walking swiftly to his aid. ‘So
you didn’t like my book?’ I asked, talking
to him to calm him. ‘Your head looks as if
it’s on a plate,’ I added. Branches lay
everywhere and he fell silent while I
was in the midst of selecting one. I
got the branch to his hands just as these were
vanishing but he wrenched it from my grasp.