A story about our interaction with the natural world, the importance of roots, and how every soul in this world needs a place of their own, however small. Excerpt: …Hannah held tightly to her father as if to a storm-tossed raft in a gale. He was warm and solid, his...
Quote 1: ‘Kierkegaard thinks that music begins where language ends,’ Finnegan said. ‘Beyond language—or when language reaches its peak—you get music.’ I considered that. ‘I can’t believe we’re talking about Kierkegaard,’ I said. ‘You’re not. I am. And the...
Mma Potokwani was watching her friend… ‘Dear friend,’ she said, ‘of course I shall help you. Of course, I shall. And we shall start tomorrow, first thing. After breakfast, that is.’ ‘I would never do anything before breakfast,’ said Mma Ramotswe. And they both...
Grief is a sea made of your own tears. Salty swells cover the dark depths you must swim at your own pace. It takes time to build stamina. Some days, my arms sliced through the water, and I felt things would be okay, the shore wasn’t so far off. Then one memory, one...
Quote 1: When I looked up through the web of trees, the night fell over me, and for a moment I lost my boundaries, feeling like the sky was my own skin and the moon was my heart beating up there in the dark. Quote 2: … what I felt was magnetic and so big it ached like...
I cling to the rail, suspended between the dazzle of sea and unbroken blue sky. The boat turned and there it was! Hey presto, the sudden flourish, conjured from bare rock by the gods and lit by the sun. A theatre for dreamers. The trick worked every time. The white...
I sat on the log watching the log fade, the river holding the soft glow of the sky. There were five Burramattagal children picking their way along a slip of sand, each child’s long thin legs straightening and jointing, straightening and jointing, legs made for walking...
Here, indeed, was a formidable sentence – one that was on intimate terms with the comma, and that held the period in healthy disregard.
Quote 1: En plein midi, l’air qui flottait sur la plaine devenait aussi animé qu’une flamme, il étincelait, il ondoyait, il ruisselait comme l’eau, il réfléchissait et multipliait tous les objets pour créer des mirages gigantesques. A cette altitude, on respirait sans...
… Regardez le jour à travers cette haie surprenante d’aiguilles, de tours et de clochers…détachez nettement sur un horizon d’azur le profil gothique de ce vieux Paris, faites-en flotter le contour dans une brume d’hiver qui s’accroche à ses nombreuses cheminées,...