Clothes as text, clothes as narration, clothes as a story. Clothes as the story of our
lives. And if you were to gather all the clothes you have ever owned in all your life, each baby shoe and winter coat and wedding dress, you would have your autobiography.
You cannot have a taste for minimalist décor if you seriously read books.
Without a physical presence on the shelves, the Kindle books seemed slightly insubstantial. There was no equivalent of the satisfying cracked spine. There was nothing to bequeath to the next generation, nothing to sell on to live a new life in someone else’s library. But at least the torrent of books that kept arriving had slowed down and there was space to walk up the stairs. I was being freed from the burden of all those bloody books.
What is the death of a soldier even off duty of an occupying army walking in an occupied territory against the death of a little boy screaming in terror in his father's arms. Where is the equivalence?
How can life end in the middle of the story? Because life always does.
Pain itself, as a pure experience, is something different from the anxiety attached to it.
Reading wasn’t my religion – it was my oxygen.