Five Years

A Turkish citizen born and raised in Germany, Murat Kurnaz was only 19 when he was arrested without explanation in Pakistan in October 2001. Handed over to the US, he spent the next 1,600 days enduring the brutal life of a prisoner at Guantanamo and various forms of torture, before being released without explanation or [...]



Exchanging Stories

There’s a joiner here today, replacing a large double-glazed unit which recently died. Nice guy, name of Kevin. I try to keep out of the way, not wanting to get under his feet. But the house isn’t that big that we can miss each other entirely.
I give him a lift with the old unit, down [...]



Presque vu XXVII

Children should be taught not the little virtues but the great ones. Not thrift but generosity and an indifference to money; not caution but courage and a contempt for danger; not a desire for success but a desire to be and to know. Natalia Ginzburg
*
A statement from Rolls Royce:
“In view of the situation in Burma, [...]



A Writer’s Notebook III

I have a note about a small old people’s home, situated somewhere in the south of Germany. I do know exactly where it is but will not divulge this information to protect the innocent. The note is about a geriatric couple who have insisted on sitting next to each other on the ward for some [...]






About Writing:

I might mention another embarrassment involved in the writer's habit of close attention. Once when I was driving through Colorado with a friend, traveling down a narrow mountain pass, we came upon an accident. A pickup truck and a car had collided, and from fifty feet away we could see the blood. We pulled over and ran to help. All the time I was running, all the time I was trying, with my friend's help, to pry open the door of the car in which a nine-months-pregnant woman had been impaled through the abdomen, I was thinking: I must remember this! I must remember my feelings! How would I describe this? I do not think I behaved less efficiently than my nonliterary friend, who was probably not thinking such thoughts; in fact, I may possibly have behaved more swiftly and efficiently, trying in my mind to create a noble scene. Nonetheless, what I felt above all was disgust at my mind's detachment, its inhumane fascination with the precise way the blood pumped, the way flesh around a wound becomes instantly proud, that is, puffed up, and so on. I would have been glad at that moment to be a literary innocent. John Gardner

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