the voice on my shoulder

If I ever become a successful serial killer, and there’s always the slim hope that I might, I will use this quote in my defence -

‘If a killer kills, it is not because he “has no conscience” but because, in his horrendous existence, things are all the same, so that by destroying some of these replicas one has the momentary illusion of making space in the world, space to breathe and to re-create differences.’

Denis Duclos - The Werewolf Complex

lost within blue

Lots of things let me down. And many things catch me unawares. Not least books. Often the ones I am most looking forward to disappoint, and those I have avoided as I graze along the shelf delight me when I finally embrace them.

This was the case for The Poisonwood Bible. I recall I bought it because it was cheap and it sounded like something I should read. But it has lurked unloved on my shelf for years, looking too wordy and too blue to tempt me. But February is a long month despite its days and I gave the blue book a go.

And these are just some of the wonders I found within -

‘Rattling words on the page calling my eyes to dance with them.’

‘my heart felt like a soft, damaged place in my chest, like a bruise on a peach.’

‘The substance of grief is not imaginary. It’s as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill.’

‘My mind is crowded with a forest of facts. Between the trees lie wide-open plains of despair. I skirt around them. I stick to the woods.’

Barbara Kingsolver