In January 1921, I found myself wonderfully alone in an empty carriage in a rocking train in the night between Waterloo and Sherborne. Stars on each side of me; I ran from side to side of the carriage, checking the constellations.
Thinking no longer means anymore than checking at each moment whether one can indeed think.
For days on end, I avoid the Web, never logging in until about two or three, after I’ve written all morning. On a good week, I don’t go online till after Wednesday, so four or five days might lapse without my checking e-mail.