Mary Ann Shaffer

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Becky

I have gone to [this bookshop] for years, always finding the one book I wanted - and then three more I hadn’t known I wanted.

Mr Brouard reads obituaries (he has hopes, but won’t say who)

Claire

Why am I so melancholy? I should be delighted at the prospect of reading Izzy to an entranced audience. You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving com- pliments. I should be thrilled.

I wish I could sneak away to your farm and have you coddle me. You'd let me put my feet on the sofa, wouldn't you? And then you’d tuck blankets around me and bring me tea. Would Alexander mind a permanent resident on his sofa? You've told me he is a patient man, but perhaps he would find it annoying.

I swear, Sophie, I think there's something wrong with me. Every man I meet is intolerable. Perhaps I should set my sights lower— not so low as the grey doctor who clicks, but a bit lower. I can't even blame it on the war— I was never very good at men, was I? 

Do you suppose the St. Swithin's furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed by disappointment. 

Oh, there's no need to recite the dread rolls to you, but Sophie—what is the matter with me? Am I too particular? I don't want to be married just to be married. I can't think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I cant talk to, or worse, someone I can't be silent with. 

Kiss Dominic for me and tell him I saw a rat the size of a terrier the other day. 

Love to Alexander and even more to you, Juliet

12 January, 1946 (what. an. introduction.)

I want to ask a kindness of you. Could you send me the name and address of a bookshop in London? I would like to order more of Charles Lamb's writings by post. I would also like to ask if anyone has ever written his life story, and if they have, could a copy be found for me? For all his bright and turning mind, I think Mr. Lamb must have had a great sadness in his life.

I wonder how the book got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.

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