The source of the Nile

3monkeyGlenn‘So why are you living on a boat on the Nile?’ I ask.

‘Like everyone else here, I’m looking for the source,’ she laughs. I smile.

‘I value the solitude, the heat and being independent. Now though I mostly feel lonely; all I have for company are mosquitos. It’s self-enforced exile. I can’t forgive and can’t be forgiven.’

‘So you punish yourself in exile. How long will you do that for?’ I ask.

‘There’s no way back; I’ll probably be eaten by a crocodile and no one would ever know.’

Her head swivels around as she takes in her dimly lit cabin. It’s tiny, a few brilliant shards of sunlight pierce the darkness through a hatch behind her. I think of mummies cocooned in tombs.

‘Is there anything else keeping you there?’

‘No, apart from my boat, nothing.’

‘What’s your boat called?’

She looks embarrassed. ‘Dignity. You know, like the song …’ – she sings – ‘… a ship called dignity’.

‘I know that song.’ I reply.

‘The man in the song is a street cleaner. He wants to get away. He saves his money for a boat he’s going to call Dignity.’

‘It doesn’t sound like the right name for your boat.’

‘Uh, how so?’ she asks.

‘A ship called Guilty seems more apt.’ I’d not really seen the link before between dignity and guilt; they’re quite similar … I begin floating away on my thoughts.

She interrupts my thinking, I’m back with her again, ‘I see what you mean but you don’t know what I’ve done.’

‘You could tell me.’

‘You’d hate me.’

‘It must be awful for all your care to be taken up with what other people think of you.’

She looks away. ‘Like a ship’s captain I’ll probably go down with this bloody boat.’

‘That’s up to you. Forgiveness, no forgiveness; either way it’s up to you.’

‘Okay I’ll tell you.’ She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. I feel like a priest in a confession booth – the computer screen in place of the lattice opening both separating and connecting us.

‘I allowed my husband, my ex-husband, to do things, terrible things, to our son.’ Her breathing stops for a moment. Apart from the hum of my monitor there’s silence.

The cabin looks to be closing in on her. Rather than lighting her way out, the sunlight is a chink in her self-created cell.

‘Where were you when he did these things?’

Tears start rolling down her cheeks. ‘At church, for Sunday evening prayers.’

I feel sick.

‘Did you ever tell the priest?’

‘I think he knew. He’d see my son in the morning at Sunday School. He would go on about forgiveness. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, maybe he did, in any case what the hell does the Church know about abuse or forgiveness.’

I wonder if she’ll ever have any peace. With this thought my peace is gone and I feel priestly again. I can feel the tension mounting in the ether somewhere between her cabin on the Nile and my home in Cambridge.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘About what?’ I reply.

‘About what I’ve done, what I failed to do as a mother? What else?’

‘It is awful and yes it’s hateful. Did you know at the time?’

‘No, not consciously, I knew something was wrong … You think what I did was unforgivable, I can tell?’

‘You want to know if I forgive you?’

‘You wouldn’t tell me honestly.’

‘You don’t know, you’ve not asked. I don’t think you want to know.’

‘You’re avoiding the question.’

‘You haven’t asked the question.’

‘I know what you’d say: “I’ve got to forgive myself first”, blah, blah, blah; that’s a dodge too. What I’ve done is unforgiveable, that’s it. Anyway what’s your problem with forgiveness?’

‘It’s self-absorbed. It has nothing to do with your son. Besides that it won’t free you.’

‘Wow! You really don’t like me very much do you?’

I smile. She replies, ‘Okay, now you’re going to tell me that it’s not important whether you like me or not. Come on, really?’

She’s right, it’s an uncomfortable question, I can’t avoid it; ‘I don’t forgive you; your son won’t forgive you. You’ll never forgive yourself, your ex-husband, the priest or the Church. And you’ll never forgive God.’ I give these words time to penetrate her cell.

I add, ‘You don’t need forgiveness; it’s about finding a way to live with the pain.’

She looks sad, then a smile, ‘The priest won’t like that.’ Then letting out a deep breath, her voice now coming from her diaphragm, ‘If that were true I could come back to England. I’d have to sell the boat first.’

‘Maybe you could give it to the priest for dispensation?’ We laugh.

‘You could just leave it behind.’

Glenn recommends …

The Genealogy of Morals by Friedrich Nietzsche

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Glenn Nicholls 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Chimpanzee on the couch

3monkeyGlenn

The chimpanzee shot past me straight upstairs to the kitchen. Thudding and banging she emerges hobbling down the stairs laden with fruit clutched in her hands and feet, and tucked under her chin. I follow her into my consulting room. Perched on the edge of the sofa, only the sound of her slurping and sucking breaks the silence. We sit watching each other as a small pile of fruit skins form a pyramid on the wooden floor. I imagine them going into the bin.

‘You looked surprised; am I the first chimpanzee you’ve had? I bet you’ve never heard a chimpanzee speak before?’

I’m the one unable to speak.

‘I’m guessing you don’t speak in my tongue, so let’s stick with English.’

She’s teasing me? ‘Okay,’ I smile and blink.

‘This is talking therapy right? It’ll be odd if we didn’t talk.’

‘So what do you want to talk about?’ I say as though I’m used to conversing with chimpanzees.

‘The zoo psychologist referred me; she says I’m depressed, but that’s not why I’m here.’ She interrupts herself, ‘This is confidential isn’t it?’ Her look is so intense that I freeze for a moment. I’m trying to imagine describing this session to my supervisor. I want to stay with this image.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Um, I don’t mind if you write about me in your blog.’

‘You’re concerned about confidentiality and yet you’re happy for me to write about our session.’

‘Well no one will believe you’ve worked with a speaking chimpanzee! They’ll assume it’s a metaphor, a literary device or something. So you can if you want to.’

‘Thank you. So you’re depressed and that’s not why you’re here …’

‘Well of course I’m depressed – I live in a zoo. There’d be something seriously wrong with me if I weren’t, right?’ She pauses; I can’t tell if she wants a reply.

‘I’ve heard that psychotherapy is primarily about listening.’

‘And the psychologist doesn’t listen to you?’

‘No, actually I’ve never spoken to her – well, not in English. I’ve nothing to say to her. I’ve never heard her say anything remotely interesting or insightful.’

Again she pauses as though awaiting a response.

‘In my experience people don’t listen. Have you seen the BBC programme Dynasties with David Attenborough?’

‘No.’

‘They followed a group of chimpanzees around for over two years then edited hundreds of hours of footage down into just one hour. David is this old alpha-male who has somehow held off challengers and remained at the top to keep his exclusive mating rights, though they didn’t show any of that. Actually he didn’t really seem to do very much. It does show him enjoying exclusive rights to narration.

‘Anyway humans love drama; with all their resources and all that film of chimpanzees they managed to shape a human drama and then, with no sense of irony or shame, present it as chimpanzee behaviour – it was genius.’

I’m trying not to imagine David Attenborough asserting his exclusive mating rights.

‘So people come to talk to you, you listen for maybe hundreds of hours, and then you make up stories, create drama? Or is that what you cure them from?’

‘There is no cure.’

‘I’ve seen it on your website: you work with addictions – sex, alcohol, drugs, spiritual addiction – but you don’t mention addiction to drama?’

‘Well people don’t see it as an addiction.’

‘So you help them become better addicts?’ For the first time she looks puzzled.

‘Ha! I suppose so. Once their stories have been listened to they can get beyond them.’

‘And then what?’

‘They become chimpanzees.’

‘Whaoo-ooh!’ her laughter reverberates around the room. ‘You know that’s not all there is to being a chimpanzee …’

Our conversation meanders until ‘our time is up’. As we move towards the front door she asks: ‘Will you dramatise this is your blog?’

‘I get the impression you want me to?’

‘Maybe it’s the only way I can tell if you’ve listened to me.’

‘Oh, so you’re testing me.’

I flash her a sad smile, her face is inscrutable; I’ve not seen this expression before. I imagine she’s reflecting back my smile, though less apologetically and perhaps more pitying.

‘How would you write it?’ I ask.

‘I wouldn’t. I’ve better things to do.’

‘And I’ve nothing better to do?’

‘Maybe you have, but then you are only human.’

‘You do know there’s no such thing as a chimpanzee, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I reply.

Standing to her full height she looks intensely into my eyes and says, ‘Thank you for the fruit.’ In the next moment she is across the road, up a tree and swinging over the fence.

Glenn suggests …

… stocking up on fruit if you work with chimpanzees.

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Glenn Nicholls 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Dying twice

Portrait_002This year, and for the first time, the anniversary of my father’s death some years ago passed by without me remembering …

It had been a short drive to the nursing home my father had moved to eight days previously. My wife and I had been his primary carers for close to a decade but when, fourteen weeks earlier, he had fallen and broken his hip, his move away from his home and into the healthcare system sparked in him a serious decline. There was also a touch of guilt at the freedoms his move was affording to us.

As we neared the care home, an ambulance on an emergency call passed us. A minute later we drew up behind it and a paramedic vehicle already parked at the home. My wife said to me, ‘It’s for your father.’ I winced; I felt her to be right.

As we strode down the corridor of the second floor suite in which my father had taken residency, a member of staff addressed us: ‘Are you here to see Brian?’

‘Yes,’ we both smiled.

There was already a temporal shift occurring – odd, I thought, no one has addressed us in such a way before. A nurse blocked our path to my father’s room: ‘You’re Brian’s relatives?’ Somehow, in a moment, we were all in her office. My wife looked pale: ‘You’d better sit down Mrs Stafford.’ But there was a dreadful tension and confusion in the space. With my psychotherapist’s hat on I honed in on the emotion – there was huge anxiety being broadcast from this experienced nurse. After a few words she left us saying, ‘I’ll just check on your father’s condition.’ It hit my wife and me at the same moment and we rushed along the corridor.

Bundling into my father’s room we saw a paramedic ‘shouting’ at the prone and half naked figure: ‘Come on Brian … stay with us.’ My father’s chest heaved in physical distress as a bag covered his mouth and another medic prepared to shock him. His skin had the waxy hue and paleness I’d seen on my mother as she passed away.

In the small living space that had become my father’s whole world the paraphernalia of modern emergency support was strewn all around. My wife was first to enunciate her horror: ‘What are you doing this for?!’

For several weeks in three separate medical establishments my father, despite his communication difficulties caused by a stroke some years earlier, had made himself understood – he wanted to die. For the long years before he broke his hip my wife and I had cared for my father, it had been difficult to watch his almost daily decline; he had been a proud, principled and independent man, a teacher and an artist. At eighty, long overdue, he become a published poet. Difficult as it was to watch, we respected that this was a man fading out at his own request. And yet here we were, thrust into the most terrible of moments – a man who wanted to die being forced back into a world he no longer had an interest in. Our protestations that my father be allowed to pass away brought yet more tension into the room. The ‘shouting’ stopped, but our fourteen weeks of frustrations at the NHS care system were too much for me and my wife.

In counterpoint we made our cases aloud to the six medics about respect and civilised treatment. But apparently, my father’s DNR (do not resuscitate) wishes had not been recorded in the requisite manner. Procedure and regulation were in the way of care and welfare, and overrode my father’s desires.

For his entire adult life, my father voted for a system that respected people, treated them well; a welfare state, a national health service, free at the point of need – one of the marks of a civilised and mature society. Those entrusted to administer NHS continuing healthcare had already attempted piracy with his rights and, now, these paramedics were clearly having to apply procedure rather than the human care they so obviously wished to dispense.

My father was being denied his wish to die peacefully and with respect. This was a system seeking to revive him so that it might take him back to a hospital he had already refused to be taken to, in order that he could ‘die’ once more, probably on a trolly in a corridor in A&E.

Before all was lost, the senior paramedic took control and through several different stages and conversations that involved myself and my father’s GP the paramedics were allowed to ‘withdraw’. And then the room was quiet and my father once more calm. His beloved Radio could be heard in the corner of his room and death once more began to claim his body. Peacefully and with us as comforters for his passage he was able to complete his life, with respect and dignity.

Duncan suggests …

… reading the book ‘Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death‘ by Irvine D. Yalom,

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Duncan E. Stafford 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

 

Easier done than said

Jimblog1Silence is the natural part of speech that never lets you down.

If at your initial meeting the counsellor looks even more miserable than you, don’t go back.

Laughing and weeping and sighing – it’s what humans do best, in no particular order.

I lie in order to bring myself roughly into being and only then can I begin to speak the truth.

To make yourself out to be happier than you are is to be happier than you think.

It goes without saying. Of course I’m happiest when I forget all about being happy.

Common sense would suggest that common sense is a good thing.

Your particular suffering is always somehow perfectly unspeakable.

Who exactly is insisting that you live your life the way you are living it now?

That unusual word you use, that odd turn of phrase, that untamed metaphor – there’s your magic.

When your therapist tells you a slightly different story about you as if you didn’t already secretly know it …

Lighten up and get over yourself – the best advice I’ve ever given to me and ignored.

It can feel great to play it but don’t let your therapy become merely a language game.

My opinions strike me as provisional no matter how long I spend forming them.

A smart thought rarely dispels a bad mood but running on the spot for a minute or two will do the trick.

Know your profound emptiness amidst abundance and nothing is ever lost to you.

Not just clearing my throat. Sometimes in a session my body sings and I can barely utter a word.

If you find some other people wonderful why not let yourself be just as wonderful to others?

Saying nothing much to your therapist is only human after all.

Your first solo act of responsibility as a little child was to talk candidly to yourself.

Soulfulness seems to become deepened by the mundane as much as by specialities.

When you pay your therapist you are instructing them to look after their own mental health.

It helps us to understand each other better by looking like we could.

The power of then. The past isn’t happening now so let’s get going before it restarts.

In another life I’m still dreaming of this one.

It could be scarily liberating to realise that hardly anyone knows anything about your existence.

That subtle and penetrating insight you had yesterday – where is it hiding out now?

Profoundly therapeutic dialogue can’t help but generate moments of divine silliness.

Your life may be no more or less painful than anybody else’s but you’re the only one who can live it.

To heal means to become whole, so get ready for a mighty slow-motion internal explosion.

Reassuring to know your inner child is always listening intently to you talking away like an adult.

Every gleaming sentence is a spell cast in the hope of teasing out the next crappy one.

What’s almost true is more exciting than what’s totally true.

Perhaps nobody ever truly empathises with another person without making bland assumptions.

Partiality. You’re talking to me as if I know you, when all I have is my version of your version of you.

To listen to counsellors and therapists having a discussion you’d think they were in love with suffering.

He could see my puzzlement and smiled at me like I knew what he meant, then suddenly I did know.

In good therapy, when two people talk and one is a therapist, both become therapists.

Jim recommends …

… Presley, E. (1960). ‘It’s Now Or Never.’

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Jim Holloway 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Mother Nature

Portrait_002It’s pretty snug in the back of the café on the high street. Soft fried eggs are being popped by chips on most tables, washed down with builders’ strength teas while unapologetic white bread – spread with margarine – is busy mopping up baked bean sauce.

Across the aisle, to my right, a table of five sit talking – three young women in their mid-twenties, a giant of a man (probably thirty) and an angelic blonde child of about fifteen months who is sat in a high chair with her back towards me.

I’m not quite sure what first draws my attention to the group but I’m suddenly aware of something completely chilling. The woman closest to the child (who appears to be her mother) displays open anger and disgust, for no apparent reason, towards the child, who is finger feeding herself.

I am so tightly aligned with the mother’s eyes that I can’t believe she hasn’t seen me looking directly at their dyad. I’m unsettled. Here in the friendly atmosphere of my favourite greasy spoon, where I have never heard cross words spoken or seen tension displayed. Here in this friendly high street enclave I am deeply disconcerted at some momentary flashed expressions.

And now I’m no longer enjoying the acidic bite of the tinned tomatoes that accompany my eggs, chips and beans. My human ability to read two of the six universal emotions purported by Ekman and Friesen* have seen to that.

Mother is looking blankly at the child. Across the table engaged with her friends and partner she appears inconsistent: sometimes smiling and engaging but then turning to her child with poison and what I see as resentment. Father strokes the child’s head for a moment. Mother, checking to see the others are engaged away from her, flashes more disgust at her child. Mother’s upper lip is raised, the bridge of her nose wrinkles and her cheeks are high.

I think I raise my right hand to my mouth to try to cover the words I’d like to shout across the room. I want to stand up in the back of the café and address my fellow regular patrons. ‘Am I the only one who can see this?’ I’d shout. I want to race across the room and ask what is wrong with this friendship group that they do not challenge this mother, their friend. Why do they not want to protect the Angel from this storm?

I’ve lost my hunger and I am left in a universe of uncertainty. Did my own mother feel these emotions towards me when I was a child?

Angel, who has been so calm and contained for one this young, reaches over her plastic feeding bar and attempts to get to more food. Her father strokes her head gently once more. Mother stretches to the food, breaks off a crust of toast and drives it in the air past her daughter’s eyes to her own mouth, and drops it in. Every gesture aimed at Angel says, ‘I hate you; you disgust me.’

I deploy my inner therapist as my own referee against demonising this young mother.

Thankfully, mother and friends are ahead in their meals and don’t look as though they will sit and talk after they finish. Dad produces hand wipes for mum to clean Angel’s hands. The three engage, and Angel is allowed to witness and absorb more of her mother’s bile. Mother’s eyes dart around her friends and partner. She places the first wipe, now dirty, on Angel’s head; it looks like she wants to humiliate Angel, turn her into a rubbish dump. She begins to roughly clean her other hand. Father’s long arm reaches over and removes the wipe from Angel’s head and places it on the table. Mother smiles at her partner in a sarcastically petulant manner, then turns a disgusted face once more towards Angel – dismissing her.

My inner therapist has decided he is watching the acting out of an envious attack from mother to the child who has stolen her lover. It is dangerous, raw and uncomfortable to see. How have I been able to be this voyeur? How have I not been seen watching in plain sight?

Father rises from the table, stoops and picks up Angel from her chair. He holds her lovingly in an embrace and I see, as they twist around, the brightest of faces, a smile and a giggle. Now moments later mother is manoeuvring the empty pushchair through the café. She looks depressed, abandoned, weighted by the world.

The observation is over. I am unsettled: ‘What could I have done?’

I so hope I will not read of a mother and child killed on the nearby railway crossing or of Angel battered and abused, then removed into care.

This breakfast has left me feeling empty; I’ll not forget it for a long time yet.

* Ekman, P. and Friesen, W.V. (1971). Constants across cultures in the face and emotion. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 17(2), 124–129.

Duncan suggests …

… reading D. W. Winnicott’s classic text on this subject area – Babies and Their Mothers.

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Duncan E. Stafford 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Mother Ayahuasca

3monkeyGlennA line of candles on sticks light the trail to a clearing deep into the woods. The light is already fading on a warm July evening. At the centre of the clearing is a large newly lit fire. Twenty or more people sit or lay down in a circle around the fire.

A slight build, dark skinned man sits smoking a long pipe. He has a proud feathered headdress peaking perhaps two feet above his head, his face is painted, his clothes are patterned with bright whites and cool and dark blues. Under his necklaces I see images on his top that look familiar. Before I’m able to identify them the shaman starts speaking. A young woman translates his native Portuguese into English: ‘You must stay in the group until morning when the ceremony ends … Do not wander off into the forest away from the circle … If someone needs help, even the person next to you, do not help them – anyone needing help should raise their hand and I will come.’ The shaman then tells us he has been a shaman for more than sixty years, since he was eight. I wonder, is he trying to reassure us? I don’t think so. As I digest these words the images on his top are suddenly clear; two stormtroopers from Star Wars. Wow, really! And yes of course that is Darth Vader standing behind them. Odder still is that I find this somehow reassuring.

The forest has transformed, the fire is a giant coiled anaconda watching me amid the flames, the shaman is an icaro bird singing and dancing, calling to the forest. The sound of retching circles around the group, participants trying to hold down the thick bitter brown liquid; it’s mostly dry retching as they’ve not eaten since noon. The retching becomes a sort of wordless somatic conversation. My body responds with laughter. The conversation moves on; someone retches, I laugh, others laugh, someone moans. This is Mother Ayahuasca at work. I realise my laughter is joy. I’m not laughing at others’ discomfort, their retching noises or the irony of medicine making them sick. Joy was bubbling up as laughter. I realise joy makes no room for, nor has need of, empathy. Ah yes! Joy, not empathy. Ah yes to respond with empathy only reaffirms the dichotomy of the ‘healer’ and the ‘sick’.

My ‘intention’ or question for this ceremony was about how I approach my work. I was seeing how my question is based on the duality of ‘me and my approach’; with this thought, two things happened. I thought ‘I can’t wait to tell my therapist; he’ll love it’; immediately a voice in me blurted out ‘He doesn’t exist!’. More laughter, more joy. ‘I’ve made him up, of course; of course he doesn’t exist.’

As I lay back tucked into my sleeping bag my joy went from laughter to a stream of emotionless tears. ‘He doesn’t exist; neither do I.’ As Glenn slipped away, this whole night as an experience slipped away also. I saw the sky and canopy reaching down towards me, the trees and smoke dissolving into vibrant living patterns tracking back down where I lay. As I closed my eyes I felt ants crawling on my face, there was nothing there, I could see in my mind’s eye tiny creatures knitting together and unpicking my mind, wave after wave of patterns swept over me.

As I opened my eyes I saw my favourite painting hanging from the consulting room wall. Under it, on the sofa, sat Lena where I’d left her, wide eyed looking expectantly at me. ‘You went to sleep.’

‘Was it for long?’ I was still getting my bearings.

‘No maybe two minutes or so, no more.’

‘It felt like ages, really deep but, yeah just a few moments …’

‘So, did you dream?’ she asked with her eyes fixed on mine.

‘Yes.’ I paused, waiting for words to come out of my mouth.

‘So what did you dream?’

‘That’s just it; I don’t think I’ve stopped.’

Glenn says …

… ayahuasca is classified as a class A drug in the UK and is therefore illegal. In the Amazon it is treated as a potent medicine. It is unclear what the legal status of ayahuasca is if the boundary between dreaming and waking life has dissolved.

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Glenn Nicholls 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Indiscreet notes on the wisdom of reading too much

Jimblog1All possible thought could stream instantaneously through your mind at some point and then what?

How we fill the void of our terrifying incomprehensibility with an infinite number of stories is the only story.

Life might have no deep meaning. Wondrous relief, not to make an effort one way or another!

For me to ignore my luxurious experience of excessive reading would be even more decadent than this.

One mind, one thousand million books – all full, all empty. All fucking infuriating. All a complete wonder.

No matter how introverted you are, it’s always other people’s suffering that brings you to the fight.

It helps to walk around a bit and talk frankly to your other self and spit things out.

Bookshop as quiet war zone. Wandering out without a text to hand, feeling like an unarmed monk.

Call the world, it will come. Turn away and it will come even more ferociously. Not available in book form.

Infinite reading room in the eternal library – and your real life is the one in the best seat by the window.

Far too many words in a book. A handful of sentences would do for a lifetime.

Several lifetimes just to wake up.

The smell of books brings me to tears because of all the death and love and because there’s nothing else.

Your knowledge is no use until you’re free of it.

How to mind the gaps between sentences, where meanings live and die and shudder.

Gap the mind. Don’t be clever. Be the idiot-spark in the timeless gap. Just go on.

No, actually, the meaning of meaning is always already right here and suddenly understood.

Reading a book to find myself in the world, to recognise myself in it, then realising we’ve already met.

Don’t read yourself too carefully, you are already more wild and random than you know.

Books are other people without the change of mind.

My fresh and sophisticated maxim is your tired and ancient homily, and the other way round.

Even the smallest library is an excess of absence, like a graveyard. Evidence of our burning desires.

A person free from all pretence would be constantly fearless and a bloody pain to hang out with.

I am superbly pretentious, especially when I think I know you well. You get my fear just fine.

There is not much self to be found other than this constant, slow, brilliant shattering of syllables.

Don’t meet me in the field but in this very word which places us there already.

A single sentence: no less presumptuous than a novel, just forgotten sooner.

The most important book on this planet is mud.

How well we live when we put our books down and laugh at nothing!

Over-reading or over-eating or over-dreaming – the only difference is your odd degree of spiritual torpor.

Count the people now in the world who have the same thoughts as you and count yourself a fortunate idiot.

Make yourself up by going along with your destiny.

Deep truth as error. When you know a wise person has said something unforgettable, you forget it, wisely.

Sitting behind my wall of books with a head full of mind, the freedom not to read is unsurpassable.

The pause between reading and not reading is the actual reading.

What we seek is always (a) utterly impossible to find, and (b) under our noses, and (c) neither a nor b.

All the books in all the libraries at midnight, breathing out slowly, forgiving themselves for no reason.

The right books find you through chaotic acts of fate. You find the wrong books likewise.

Jim recommends …

… Fish, S. (2011). How To Write A Sentence.

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Jim Holloway 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.