Reflections of a working writer and reader
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. Ernest Hemingway on F Scott-Fitzgerald
Anna is standing behind me in the queue, holding the tv in both arms as if it were a large foal. The shop guy glances at her but addresses me with his eyebrows. Something wrong, sir? We don’t want it, I tell him. It’s crap. A dud. Wish we’d never bought it. Anna puts it […]
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