Every lie has 2 parts - the lie we tell others and the one we tell ourselves to justify it.
To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.
She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.
I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.
There is a story, always ahead of you. Barely existing. Only gradually do you attach yourself to it and feed it. You discover the carapace that will contain and test your character. You will find in this way the path of your life.
Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go crazy
The first sentence of every novel should be: Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.
Younes Kaboul is a vital clog in the Portsmouth engine
Crows appear in many of my new unpublished poems. In these walks, they take on a symbolic life apart from their irritating, undeniable, interruptive presence. I figure them differently.
Liberal economists conceive of societies as black boxes connected by exchange rates; as long as exchange rates are correct, what goes on inside the black box is regarded as not very important.
What we remember, and how we order and interpret what we believe to be true, are what shapes who we are.