The vast majority of my disposable income is swiftly swapped for paperbacks and old classics in my local bookshops. I buy more books than I do pints of milk, most of them secondhand these days (the books not the milk...). That way, I can spend a tenner not on just one crisp and shelf-new paperback,… Continue reading I’m off to the bookshop
My new clock is staring at me, its 'silent sweep' second hand gesturing sarcastically like an impatient companion tapping their wrist. It's 0133. Without stopping at each individual notch on its circuit, the seconds seem to pass faster than on an ordinary ticking clock. It is sitting there, passive aggressively waiting for me to give… Continue reading Silent Sweep
I turned 27 this week which is weird because I still feel like a confused teenager thrashing their way through a transformative adolescence. Did you ever stop still as a kid and wonder, just because you weren't thinking about it in that exact moment, if you could actually have forgotten your own name? Just for… Continue reading Factually, technically…numerically.
Going back to that Bob Dylan quote from yesterday... I change throughout the course of a day. I wake and I’m one person, and when I go to sleep I know for certain I’m somebody else.” ...I think I'm learning that the writer version of my many forms is nocturnal. I seem to get my… Continue reading I contain multitudes, Vol.2
If only it were as easy to follow through in the morning as it is to commit to grand plans late at night. This is classic small-hours rumination from yours truly. Lying on my back, staring into the black space where the ceiling should be and waiting for the melatonin to kick in, I'll idly… Continue reading I contain multitudes.
To say that very little happens in William Maxwell's The Château would be to over-estimate its drama. But that doesn't matter. Maxwell's book is principally concerned with the characters, sculpted slowly and deliberately over hundreds of pages. The writer does not make any concessions for the patience of the reader and though I might have… Continue reading Visiting post-war France with William Maxwell
It actually felt like the first flush of summer for a perfect minute this morning. Dry-skinned and clammy-palmed from efficient all-night heating, I guiltily opened my window. Breezeless, the unseasonably mild air flooded over me. The countryside said “good morning” with lazily cooing pigeons and idly tittering blue tits, with the soft scent of lush… Continue reading A perfect minute.