Books I want to remember
because to some people it looks like a big empty space with nothing in it, but for us, it’s a really important place filled with wildlife and lovely, wonderful communities, and we wanted to protect them.’ She’d appealed to the critical difference between ‘space’ and ‘place’ – one a malleable territory largely Irreplaceable: The fight to save our
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Piranesi a book by Susanna Clarke
bookshop.org
I write down what I observe in my notebooks. I do this for two reasons. The first is that Writing inculcates habits of precision a carefulness. The second is to preserve whatever knowledge I possess for you, the Sixteenth Person.
I am guilty of bad practice. Only one system of numbering is needed. Two introduces confusion, doubt, uncertainty, doubt and muddle. (And is aesthetically unpleasing.)
In accordance with the first system I have named two years 2011 and 2012. This strikes me as deeply pedestrian what happened two thousand years ago which made me think that year a good starting point. According to the years names like 'The Year I named the Constellations' and 'The Year I counted and named the Dead each year a character of its own. This is the system I shall use going forward
The dreamy, slippery novel melds adventure with climate fiction as its protagonist follows the last remaining Arctic terns on their final migration amid mass extinction
Fiona Wright • The Last Migration by Charlotte McConaghy review– aching, poignant and pressing debut
Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami
dauntbooks.co.ukThe light touch of a hairdresser’s hands on one’s scalp, the euphoric energy of a nightclub, huddling with strangers under a shelter in the rain, a spontaneous snowball fight in the street, a daily interaction with a homeless man—such mundane connections, when we closely inhabit the same space, and touch or are touched by others, were nearly lost... See more
Encounterism
Help me remember this book. I always struggle to recall it and remember it.
Relate it to Priya Parker Gatherings
mist comes right then, laying the salt air gently on the fruit, you have something that money can’t buy and chefs can’t create. A perfect, lightly salted blackberry. You can’t make them; it has to come with time and nature. They’re a gift, when you think summer’s over and the good stuff has all gone. They’re a gift.”’ Our path, our magnificent walk, was slipping away from him. Hold on to it, Moth, hold it tight; it’s ours, our bright light in the mess of our lives.