There’s never much talk but touches and looks, smiles together, curses for parting. It is marginal, hungry, chilly - most times they’re too paranoid to risk a fire - but it’s something they want to keep, so much that to keep it they will take on more than propaganda has ever asked them for. They are in love. Fuck the war.
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
A resurgence of love for the physical book has come again and today 3 new purchases arrived. They are Lionel Shriver’s We need to talk about Kevin, Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow and Patrick Leigh Fermor’s travelling classic, A Time of Gifts. Preowned books feel so much nicer than new ones, more inviting. Currently reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelly, it’s good.