Tag Archives: jeanette winterson

books, books, books

This is me recording here the e-books I read in the past years. It comforts me to know that I still make time to read books. I hope that in the near future, I start making time for writing poetry since finding myself back home always evokes the deepest thoughts in me.

Sexing the Cherry, Jeanette Winterson
Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, Jeanette Winterson
Why be Happy When You Could be Normal, Jeanette Winterson
Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman: Adventures of a Curious Character, Richard Feynman
Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, Catherynne M. Valente
Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Haruki Murakami
Shit My Dad (Never) Says, Oscar Wilde
No Easy Day: The Firsthand Account of the Mission that Killed Osama Bin Laden, Mark Owen
Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman
Good Omens, Neil Gaiman
American Gods, Neil Gaiman
A Series of Unfortunate Events, Daniel Handler
Life as I Blow It, Sarah Colonna
Heaven is For Real, Todd Burpo
Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell
The Evil that Men Do, Stephen Michaud
The Marriage Plot, Jeffrey Eugenides
The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
Orange is the New Black, Piper Kerman

The Wisdom of Psychopaths, Kevin Dutton
I Was Told There’d be Cake, Sloane Crosley
On another note, my latest book conquest was Farahad Zama’s The Marriage Bureau for Rich People.
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for you

“Do you wake up as I do, having forgotten what it is that hurts or where, until you move? There is a second of consciousness that is clean again. A second that is you, without memory or experience, that animal warm and waking into a brand new world.”- Jeanette Winterson
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I fancy I am Silver, and you were once my mother swept away by greedy winds, those winds that never stopped howling for endless ransoms.
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Little Bird by Lisa Hannigan

Your heart sings like a kettle
And your words, they boil away like steam.
And a lie burns long while the truth bites quick,
A heart is built for both it seems.
You are lonely as a church,
Despite the queuing out your door.
I am empty as a promise, no more.

When the time comes,
And rights have been read,
I think of you often
But for once I meant what I said.

I was salted by your hunger,
Now you’ve gone and lost your appetite
And a little bird is every bit as handy in a fight.
I am lonely as a memory
Despite the gathering round the fire.
Aren’t you every bird on every wire?

When the time comes,
And rights have been read,
I think of you often
But for once I meant what I said.
Here I stay, I lay me down,
I’m dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill.
Here I stay, I lay me down,
In a house by the Hill.
I’m dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill.
I’m dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill.
I’m dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill.

I always thought that October is the saddest month of the year. And then V came along and my sense and sensations nose-dove. To ride the crest or weather the trough?

I always thought that October is the saddest month of the year. Why? Because it reminds me of that one major loss in my life that causes the finest soup to taste muddy and the sweetest memory to turn banal. Nothing can lift me up afterwards. See here Jeanette Winterson’s quote: “This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it.” Most use this as their anthem about romantic love. V will probably use it for that specific someone who maimed her heart. I remember you every time I regard this quote. When one bears the greatest loss, every thing is skewed, and when one laughs, there is a ragged aftertaste, something that can’t be filled, something that chokes days.

I always thought that October is the saddest month of the year. Last year, it was 20,00 Seconds by K’s Choice that I offered to you. There was a time I offered Carry by Tori Amos to you. Do you remember The Smiths’ Sleep? And other fistful of songs that I wish would reach you. They say that when human beings die, their sense of hearing is the last to go — thus the songs and my occasional hellos and senseless narrations, thus the ramblings on a regular Tuesday afternoon.

I always thought that October is the saddest month of the year. And when my birthday month rolls in, when Christmas rolls in, when birthdays of my favorite writers and singers roll in, I would think that certain months are as saddening as October. And then I look at the calendar and realize, what the hell, every month is like October!

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