Thursday, 14 January 2010

January 14

For Proust, it was a madeleine. Yesterday, the smell of a particular blend of mud restored me to my childhood.


I still look under my pillow for the spider that died there in 1983.


Truth is complex, lies are easy. Fiction solves this problem by wearing its untruth on its sleeve –– thereby asserting kinship with its supposed opposite.


Nothing kills reading more effectively than its elevation to a virtue.

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