I was in Haworth, Yorkshire, the other day. It was cold, clear, crisp and quite beautiful. I walked through a churchyard, and then into a church that was lit by the springtime sun streaming through a stained glass window, that threw colours on the ground like puddles of joy.
The church was empty, quiet except for the sound of the birds singing outside, and the sound of my footsteps inside, as I walked up to a brass plaque set in the floor.
Someone had left a bunch of flowers and a “Thank You” card on the plaque. I picked up the card and read it:
“Thank you for the joy you have given me, thank you for the books.”
That was it, 150 years after they had died, a thank you to a writer for the time they had taken to write.
Just imagine that?