A life without books is like body without a soul.
It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be, with no effort or trying and slowly we found each other’s hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a simple sign of hope
that things will go on and get better
and that things and people and views are still out there, yet to be found.
A Mother & Daughter’s Love Is Never Separated
Writing is talking, except you get the chance to edit what you just said
I lived within the cover of books and those books were more real to me than any other thing in my life.
She thought about how in that moment life was perfect because it was simple. One truck, a world asleep, and a million stars.
It didn’t matter where they were going.
She was just existing.
You’re absolutely insane, that much I’m certain of, but it’s one of the many things I love about you.
Being the Novelist-in-Residence at a riad hotel in the kasbah of an Arabic North African city is a lot like trying to write one’s memoirs on shreds of napkins in a nuthouse.
The engorged moon hung full and low in the sky like a yellow skull. Misshapen clouds stretched across the floating orb with elongated hands and bony fingers grasping. As they neared the docks, the gas lamps grew fewer and the streets gloomier. The cobblestones blackened as they passed the deserted brickfields. Bottle-shaped kilns spat their outrage with orange tongues of fire into the cooling air. Mangy dogs snarled in hunger and wandering sea-gulls screamed their displeasure at the hansom’s passage.
Crazy people. They never think they’re crazy. Their craziness makes perfect sense to them.