Book worms, from my rapidly advancing studies, seem to work in three distinct ways. They either make baroque patterns within the cardboard covers of the book; or eat away at the edges of the paper like water slowly undermining a road; or else they stud the text with neat but superfluous full stops, turning everything to Hemingway.
A worm has gone right through my copy ofSan Michele, resolutely and remorselessly, cover to cover. He misses any actual text (eating between the lines?), but the little black dot is always there, top-right of the even pages, top-left of the odds; like spotting a reflection on your TV screen, then being unable to ignore it for the rest of the movie.
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