I Capture the Castle Read Online Free PDF

hold the pencil. I wish Stephen hadn’t made me think of food, because I have been hungry ever since; which is ridiculous as I had a good egg tea not six hours ago. Oh, dear —I have just thought that if Stephen was worrying about me being hungry, he was probably hungry himself. We are a household!
    I wonder if I can get a few more minutes’ light by making wicks of match sticks stuck into the liquid wax. Sometimes that will work.
    It was no good-like trying to write by the light of a glowworm. But the moon has fought its way through the clouds at last and I can see by that. It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.
    Rose is asleep—on her back, with her mouth wide open. Even like that she looks nice. I hope she is having a beautiful dream about a rich young man proposing to her.
    I don’t feel in the least sleepy. I shall hold a little mental chat with Miss Blossom. Her noble bust looks larger than ever against the silvery window.
    I have just asked her if she thinks Rose and I will ever have anything exciting happen to us, and I distinctly heard her say: “Well, I don’t know, ducks, but I do know that sister of yours would be a daisy if she ever got the chance!”
    I don’t think I should ever be a daisy..”
    I could easily go on writing all night but I can’t really see and it’s extravagant on paper, so I shall merely think. Contemplation seems to be about the only luxury that costs nothing.

III
    I have just read this journal from the beginning. I find I can read the speed-writing quite easily, even the bit I did by moonlight last night. I am surprised to see how much I have written; with stories even a page can take me hours, but the truth seems to flow out as fast as I can get it down. But words are very inadequate-anyway, my words are. Could any one reading them picture our kitchen by firelight, or Belmotte Tower rising towards the moon-silvered clouds, or Stephen managing to look both noble and humble? (it was most unfair of me to say he looks a fraction daft.) When I read a book, I put in all the imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it-or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so much more exciting, but I don’t suppose many people try to do it.
    I am writing in the attic this afternoon because Topaz and Rose are so very conversational in the kitchen; they have unearthed a packet of green dye-it dates from when I was an elf in the school play—and are going to dip some old dresses. I don’t intend to let myself become the kind of author who can only work in seclusion-after all, Jane Austen wrote in the sitting-room and merely covered up her work when a visitor called (though I bet she thought a thing or two) —but I am not quite Jane Austen yet and there are limits to what I can stand. And I want to tackle the description of the castle in peace. It is extremely cold up here, but I am wearing my coat and my wool gloves, which have gradually become mittens all but one thumb; and About, our beautiful pale ginger cat, is keeping my stomach warm—I am leaning over him to write on the top of the cistern. His real name is Abelard, to go with Heloise (I need hardly say that Topaz christened them), but he seldom gets called by it.
    He has a reasonably pleasant nature but not a gushing one; this is a rare favor I am receiving from him this afternoon.
    Today I shall start with:
    How WE While Father was in jail, we lived in a London boardinghouse, Mother not having fancied settling down again next to the fence-leaping neighbor. When they let Father out, he decided to buy a house in the country.
    I think we must have been rather well-off in those days as Jacob Wrestling had sold wonderfully well for such an unusual book and Father’s lecturing had earned much more than the sales. And Mother had an income of her own.
    Father chose Suffolk as a suitable county so we stayed at the King’s Crypt hotel and drove out house-hunting every day-we had a car then;