Returning to Reading from London at five-fifteen in the afternoon, I plough through a crowd going the other way. A fellow who came out of my train a few steps ahead of me crosses the path of the rushing throngs in a few long, long steps. His head bobs up and down as his legs stretch improbably. Unexpectedly, I find myself in silent movies. I am watching Buster Keaton. By the time I fix my gaze on the fellow in front of me, he is gone off the screen.