Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us — by taking everything.

You can’t learn from remembering. You can’t learn from guessing. You can learn only from moving forward at the rate you are moved, as brightness into brightness.

When I was twenty-three I began seeing a psychotherapist because I couldn’t bear the idea that, after the end of an affair, all our shared memories might be expunged from the mind of the other, that they might no longer exist outside my own belief they’d happened. I couldn’t accept the possibility of being the only one who would remember everything about those moments as carefully as I tried to remember them. My life, which exists mostly in the memories of the people I’ve known, is deteriorating at the rate of physiological decay. A color, a sensation, the way someone said a single word—soon it will all be gone. In a hundred and fifty years no one alive will ever have known me. Being forgotten like that, entering that great and ongoing blank, seems more like death than death.

Henri Matisse | Notre-Dame, une fin d’après-midi’, 1902


My friends are funny . . . .


The $70,000-a-year Minimum Wage

Milan Kundera turns 90

Laila Lalami

We’ve got to do something!

The Mother of Dragons nearly died and I’m just hearing this now . . . “-(

Mark Luscombe-Whyte | Charlotte Culot, 2018



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This is the book I have most cherished and read throughout my adult life. Penguin Classics has just reissued Cane, with a foreword by Zinzi Clemmons. Hadn’t planned on reading it this month, but now will because every time I do I understand a little more. His sentences are seared into my heart. Karintha! ♥

Her eyes, unusually weird and open, held me. Held God. He flowed in as I’ve seen the countryside flow in. Seen men. …. She sprang up. …. Fell to her knees, and began swaying, swaying. Her body was tortured with something it could not let out. Like boiling sap it flooded arms and fingers till she shook them as if it burned her. It found her throat, and spattered inarticulately in plaintive, convulsive sounds, mingled with calls to Christ Jesus. And then she sang, brokenly. … A child’s voice, uncertain, … It seemed to me as though she were pounding her head in anguish upon the ground.


Jungle fever . . . .