‘I really should have paid a little more attention to its borders’ and their very blankness. But you never heard the least bit about a page’s skirt, no, you see it sits at the fringe, far from any word, and while I have wanted to look, I find I never do. And let me apologise too, ‘I am sounding fairly abstract, as people always do when they start talking about concreteness’, but that as it may be, I am studying the margin for a reason, and not in a fit of curiosity, I am digging for a remedy, away from the academy, towards any respite from so-called authoritative words. ‘This is not said with any animus towards the author – not at all – we would rather hate ourselves because we are not yet worthy’ of his literature. And that is why for a page, I am not studying its central column but the white by its neck, at the skirt where ‘there are no laws as such’, because here language can afford immaturity. ‘It is really only possible to express this in a kind of contradiction:’ a margin that has a vast blank will tease, because no author would reject the chance to stain its white grey, but a margin is discreet, and for the most part out of sight, so here any stain is meaningless. Surely that’s right, as for a sign to have meaning it must first be seen, and it is only really possible to spot a thing in the margin if one knows where to look; but you see I do, and so with a newfound calm, I accept the onerous task of reading this desperately skittish hand as best I can.