A reading of The Handmaid’s Tale


The show has a way of absorbing you with its bareness and minimalism, becoming almost too austere and icy.

This show couldn’t have arrived at a more appropriate time, seeing as how women have much to lose from the extreme, right-wing policies of the current republicans in control of the senate, house and the fake white house. The patriarchy wants to reverse the progress on women’s health care and family planning. Not a single women was part of the republican senate group meant to write the new health care bill. Once it was out in the open, we saw why they kept it hidden for so long. There were severe cuts to programs vital to women and families, for example Medicaid and planned parenthood. I guess conservatives are pro-life, but not when its comes to women and their children.

People want to lie to themselves, and say “that couldn’t happen to us.” Often we dismiss older societies as being naive. We saw this at the end of The Handmaid’s Tale (book) when the historian discussed the tape recordings, which revealed June’s story. He laughed it off, saying Gilead was antiquated and their ideas were primitive and impossible now. That is until someone asked, “What sort political climate do you think could potentially break apart our current status and take us back in time?” The past repeats itself only with minor differences, so it’s safe to say, we should not make light of our current political state. The historian in The handmaid’s Tale goes on to respond:

In times of peace and plenty it is hard to remember the conditions that have led to authoritative regime changes in the past, and it is even harder to suppose that we ourselves would ever make such choices or allow them to be made, but when there’s a perfect storm and collapse of the established order is in the works, precipitated by environmental stresses that lead to food shortage, economic factors, such as unrest due to unemployment, a social structure that is, top-heavy with too much wealth being concentrated among too few, then scapegoats are sought and blamed, fear is rampant, and there is pressure to trade what we think of liberty, for what we think of as safety.



I’m a little mad that no one told me about this book growing up, nor was it a required reading in high school or junior high. I wonder how I would have perceived the harsh dystopian setting, the stony characters and the cruelness of how women were treated. It may have been the case that my teachers were either offended by the nature of the book, or were not allowed to teach it since the faculty might have deemed it inappropriate for teenage girls. It would have no doubt made me hate men, at least initially. There are some redemptive male characters who are not as deplorable as the males figures in power.

I began watching The Handmaid’s Tale series, blindly without having any background on the story. This caused a shock in so much as I did not want to watch another episode, even with another human present. I could only stomach one episode at a time, because by the end of episode I had shrunk and felt depressed. This was not a lighthearted show you binge watch for 3 or 4 episodes that include moments of comic relief of the likeness of OITNB.

The scenes in the show have a way of absorbing you with its bare and minimal quality. It takes place in Cambridge, Massachusetts (though it was actually filmed in Canada) where a new society called Gilead has overthrown the U.S. democratic government of the modern era and instituted a version of Christian fundamentalism or a theocracy. This could have taken place in our decade, but it’s meant to resemble 2005—a not so distant past.

Fall in New York.

“They have instituted a caste system paired with a rigid wardrobe meant to subjugate women.”

The Gilead society is structured in such a way where everyone has a designated function, which determines their social ranking, and what they wear. They have instituted a caste system paired with a rigid wardrobe meant to subjugate women. In every town a group of handmaids are in charge of breeding children that will be raised by the wives and fathered by the commander within the assigned household. The names they once had have been discarded and in its place are the chosen family names, so they are Offred or Ofwarren. In this society love doesn’t exist, so no one dates or marries a person of their choice. Most of the men have been turned into guards or angels, meant to protect the women, but in reality they are there to make sure they don’t escape.

There is no a sight of imperfection with the neighborhood’s pristine streets, homes and gardens. Everything is meant to appear clean and pure including the women. The only colors that resonate are the handmaid’s crimson dresses and cloaks, their white hats and the wives’ blue dresses, which symbolize purity. The Marthas are the cooks and they wear drab gray uniforms; they mostly keep to themselves, since they are hidden away like discarded towels in the kitchen. The men mostly wear black and the nuns wear dark green outfits, which appear heavy.

IMG_3316 copy
Three dolls found in a nyc thrift store.

The handmaids cannot wear makeup. Their faces hide underneath the white hat that doesn’t let them see on the sides or above, only straight as if they were in a tunnel. The handmaids walk in pairs at the same rhythm. “She is my spy and I am her spy,” Offred (June) thinks  while walking with Ofglen.

Every word is carefully studied, as is every gesture, since the characters must be careful not to let their true feelings come out. An illegal action can mean punishment, or worse the women could be sent to the colonies where people go to die. It’s pertinent to know everyone’s motive, and to make sure they will not tell on you if you dissent.

“The series is an alternative reading of the book and works as a complement or another  layer.”

We often find closeup shots of June’s face as we hear her interior monologue. There’s a natural quality to the way the show was filmed, especially when June or other handmaids are in the shot, which is not to be compared with the harshness of the wives or nuns.

Let us be who we want to be and wear what we want.

The show is a version, adapted from Margaret Atwood’s book by the same name. As is the case when books are turned into shows or movies, many scenes are left out, dialogues or the similitude of relationships. The series is an alternative reading of the book and works as a complement or another layer.

The interior monologue of June is much more fluid and spontaneous in the book, where she takes certain freedoms  describing scenes and giving us suggestive anecdotes, often tricking into believing that she is still in her old life. There are poignant moments of irony and sarcasm that are not strongly felt in the show.

The book version also has a longer scene between Moira and June when they meet again after the red center days. Nick and June’s relationship is lackluster in the book and I’m glad I had the show’s version to illustrate their affection, since in the book it seems oddly cold. The wife also does not represent much of threat in the book version, but in the series she is much younger and has an alarmingly sadistic quality.

From the book, I remember Margaret Antwood’s words on how cool the scrabble pieces felt in June’s hand as she paired the letters. From the show, I remember, “They didn’t get everything, there was something left in her. She looked invincible,” June said after seeing another handmaid commit an act of bravery.

Blurry memory.


Bloodchild, by Octavia E. Butler



Reading Bloodchild makes one feel sticky and gross, as if having small aliens growing inside your stomach. Just thinking about humans being implanted with larva that grow into giant creatures with tentacles can make anyone cringe.

This science fiction tale is told from the POV of a young boy named Gan, who will no longer be a child after the day is done. The boy is finding out what it means to be a Terran and how his role as a host will come to fruition. Butler has subtle ways of unfolding the back story, as Gan embarks on a new phase of life—adolescence.  The narration absorbs us into an alien world where there’s sensual, violent, and territorial action. Butler creates a complex society without interrupting the story’s flow and gradually expands the character’s thoughts with few instances of exposition, cleverly layered. What could take many pages, the author does in a few pages. Her sentences are short but they reveal the depth of the character’s reservations about how Gan’s life will change.

There’s a whole society being explained from one small scene in the living room, through the character of Gan who is eating some eggs with his siblings and mother. The eggs allow them to fall into a slumber, hallucinate, and prolong life making their suffering less present. But Gan’s mom doesn’t want to eat them, which leave us wondering: why would she refrain from prolonging her life? In one instance Gan says, “T’Gatoi meant to cage my mother,” as the creature enveloped the mother with its limbs.

The layering of exposition, dialogue and action seem effortless from the part of the author. The set-up of the story unravels through action and dialogue, as the conflict unfolds, and we begin to understand the balance of power between the Terrans and the Tlic that allow both to exist peacefully in the Preserve. Both sides have something to gain from peace. Gan understands this dynamic when T’gatoi, the Tlic creature finds him with a gun under his chin. This moment serves as a way for Gan to bargain for something beyond his position as a host, but he also doesn’t want to suffer. He wants his people to have an easier life, and T’ Gatoi can help since she’s a government official. T’Gatoi is the only one standing between the Terrans and the desperate masses who will treat them as animals. Although, she is manipulative, she values diplomacy in order to further her agenda.

In the past, Terrans rebelled against the Tlics, but a more holistic approach to implant eggs and keep the host living emerged, allowing them to coexist. The Terrans feel awful about carrying this burden, but do not want to abandon the Tlic since they depend on them for survival. Gan has spent most of his childhood with the creature, T’gatoi instead of his mother. He was raised to host her babies. Gan is part of the alien’s sustenance, and he too feels close to T’Gatoi, as she mentions here: “You know me as no other does,” she said softly. “You must decide.”



Image: Cynthia Via

A Wrinkle In Time

She had something IT didn’t have.

More than a year ago I was on Oak Street in New Orleans walking around on a hot day. It was the dead of afternoon, and most stores were closed. Why had I come here? It was a Monday, the last day of my trip, and I wanted to explore uncharted territory—except there wasn’t much open minus a thrift store that sold Hawaiian shirts and a male clerk with a 1980s hairstyle. I walked around under the sun contemplating whether I should head back for the coffee shop I had seen along the way. Instead I continued to walk until I saw a Little Free Library. I stopped to check for books; there were less than five, and none of them seemed interesting except for a tattered book, titled A wrinkle In Time. The cover displayed a white Pegasus creature with the face of a human and rainbow wings, flying around the murky clouds of some distant planet. The creature was hovering above dark mountains and a blue orb surrounding a wrinkly man’s head with red eyes. I didn’t know what to make of it.  Could this be about space travel? Above the title it read, “ The Newbery Award Winning Classic.” I’d seen this before in other youth novels when I was teaching elementary kids, but I don’t remember ever encountering this book. The front cover was wrinkled and the back was nonexistent. It was written by Madeleine L’s Engle in 1962. I opened it and found a page that displayed the author’s other books and on the bottom was a stamp, that read “this book rescued from the refuse by Philip Garside,” dated 4/28/11. “Please re-gift; do not throw away.”

While reading the book, I thought how great this would be as a movie. Recently I found out that Ava DuVernay (Selma) is directing an adaptation to be released next year, and she had a casting call in Nola! The book was written at a time when not many children’s novels had female heroines. As a science-fantasy story, it’s interesting for kids and adults with themes of time travel, space exploration, mind control, dystopian societies, and some odd mix of spirituality. The plot revolves around Meg and her brother Charles, who search for their missing father with the help of a friend and three beings that have the ability to change forms and travel through time and space.  Their quest is to defeat a bodiless, telepathic brain called IT that controlled the people of Camazotz. Charles told Meg individuality had been done away with in this planet, and only a display of mechanistic behaviors were allowed. “Camazotz is ONE mind. It’s IT. And that’s why everyone’s so happy and efficient.” Before departing to Camazotz, which had been lost to darkness, Aunt Beast (another creature/alien friend) tells Meg,

For the things which are seen are temporal. But the things which are not seen are eternal.

Mardi Gras floats?

This was the loveliest surprise one could get. I took the book and kept walking to the end of Oak Street until I saw a warehouse and some parade floats standing outside. I thought they were Mardi Gras floats being stored away for a near date. But it was June and Mardi Gras had already passed months ago. I assumed I would not be back again, so it was a treat to see them. I entered what appeared to be a thrift shop from the outside but was actually a small sign and billboard store. I talked to the owner, asking him if there was anything open on Oak Street. The guy on the laptop had long white hair. “Everything is mostly closed today, but I’m sure you’ll find something on the main avenue.” What brings you down here,” he asked. They had some used clothes hanging on a rack. I quickly glanced at them and talked to him for a bit longer, then went outside to face the hot sun. Someone walked by and said, “How are you?” I barely had the energy to respond. I finally walked back to the coffee shop I avoided and asked for water, sat down to cool off, and later ordered ice-cold tea and read my new book.

It’s Always Sunny in New Orleans

Notes from December:

It’s always sunny in New Orleans. At least for the months since I’ve lived here it has been unseasonably warm and humid. The days carry out for long hours and you can fit in many activities, and still it’s no more than five in the afternoon, but that doesn’t mean you’re not tired and ready for a nap by mid-day.


During one Saturday there was a book fair in the small park with the picnic tables. I went to meet the few local presses and literary magazines before heading out to buy a desk. Books to 2 Prisoners was giving out free books and coffee. I knelt down and rummaged through several boxes until I decided to adopt Ralph Emerson’s Essays and Marguerite Duras’ The War. I grew tired of searching for more books and left the rest for crowds still lingering. After going around talking to people and picking up some literature, I joined the line for food, being served by Community Kitchen, and talked to a stranger about how it felt to live here until I had to leave to find my friend, who was sitting in the middle of the park listening to poetry.

We left for the yard sale happening at the Wonderland house, the one with airy white curtains. I always daydream of wandering inside beneath the tall ceilings. Who lives there? I bet fairies, nymphs and goddesses. I looked over at the items sitting above the tables; they were all so pretty, but I reminded myself I was here for a desk. My friend singled out a wooden desk at the end of the yard. The lady in charge told us it was made by a tramp who must have paid for room and board by making furniture.  “You can see the work in the details,” she said. How grueling I imagined the days were– to spend making these angular carvings. It was a beautiful heavy desk but I noticed the deep cuts and nicks which took some of the beauty away. Inside a small draw, I found a fat pencil and a card with the name of a construction company. This was a desk for someone willing to restore it back to its greatness. I later found a desk in a Mid-City thrift shop, a small piece that I imagine could easily floating  away.


During one weekend in December, a friend visited from New York. We went to the French Quarter only to find a random Hare Krishna parade unfolding on N Peter St. with music and dancing. It was mostly composed of women dressed in bright yellow, green, orange saris, and men who wore cream caftans and orange robes. Behind the long crowds of people was a large float being carried by several men. They held the bottom of the float on their shoulder. A top the float was a holy man decorated with flower necklaces. My friend was sure it was a real guy but he was no more than a sitting statue, a replica of their spiritual leader. The people repeated the chant “Hare Krishna” coming from a microphone that was carried by a white jeep in front. We drew closer to take photos. A man sitting on the float gave us bags of oranges, and later a boy handed us an informational booklet. The sun mixed with the bells, and the chanting carried it forward into the universe. I tried to stay in the sidelines, watching the colors unfold and the feeling of warmth, yet not wanting to be over taken. My friend was lost somewhere in the crowd, capturing profiles of the followers with his camera.

A sunny winter day always turned into a cold, breezy night. It wasn’t like the cold in the Northeast; rather it gave off, a cold wet feeling that reached your bones. On one of those nights, I chose to spend it near a fireplace, drinking absinthe in Pirate’s Alley next to the church. “I can’t believe the year is almost over,” I said to a friend, as I sipped my green drink slowly, and looked at the orange fire and the warmth surrounding the barely lit establishment.



Knut Hamsun’s Hunger: Study on human nature

Hunger/Sult. Dover Publicantion, 2003 Edition (1890)

Once while walking around the second floor of the New York Public Library, I landed on the bookshelf that housed A wanderer plays on muted strings, by Knut Hamsun. I was struck by the subtly of the title. Filled with clever observations, humor, discoveries, and mini intrigues, A wanderer plays on muted strings is a continuation of Under the autumn star, written 6 years later. Both books play with the theme of being the distant observer, and take on the approach of travel stories. The protagonist Knut Penderson, goes from one Norway town to another searching for small jobs, meeting old friends, and making new ones. Both works observe and explore the oddities of human relationships. Knut’s travels from the urban city to the small towns of Norway, more than anything looking for tranquility and happiness in the slowness of days. When reading them, I pictured an older narrator, who settled himself comfortably in the continuation of his search.

Much of the great writing in A wanderer plays on muted strings surfaces when Knut takes lonely walks with nature as his only companion. Here he describes even the most peculiar thought.

I find a strange sense of pleasure coming over me as I look at this cozy homestead in the woods. There is a faint soughing of the wind in the forest behind; close up to the house are foliage trees, and the aspens rustle like silk. I walk back home. Night is deepening; all the birds are silent; the air calm and warm, in a soft bluish gloom.

This year will probably be a good one for berries. Mountain cranberries, crowberries and cloudberries. True enough, you can’t live on berries. But it’s nice to have them in the fields, looking so pleasing to the eye. And they’re refreshing to come across when you’re thirsty and hungry. Yesterday afternoon I sat and thought about this.

This led me to search for Hunger, one of Knut’s first major novels published in 1890. It portrays an unemployed youth, named Tangen who writes sporadically for a living in Christiania, Norway. The author himself was known to be poor during his youth. Much of the writing in Hunger is said to be autobiographical, so it’s likely he experienced similar trials. Unlike A wanderer plays on muted strings and Under the autumn star, the connection between man and nature in Hunger is not an apparent one, instead we delve into the character’s psychological troubles. Hunger explores human nature through Tangen’s spiral into poverty.

We meet Tangen in the beginning of his long battle with unemployment in the late 19th century. He hasn’t paid rent for his small apartment with a window to the street. It’s his most prized possession apart from his writing sheets and pencils. He only has a few items, including a blanket, his glasses and a coat, after having sold off his other possessions to a local store in order to acquire money for food. The storekeeper buying his items finally realizes how foolishly mad Tangen has become when he decides to sell old buttons. But Tangen thinks this plan is worthy of payment.

Well, now, there was nothing more to be done! To think he would not take them at any price, I muttered. They are almost new buttons; I can’t understand it. (Hamsun 63)

Tangen’s one room has a bed, a chair and a window; he makes no mention of a kitchen. Without a steady income he cuts down on food, leaving him weak for days until he gets paid for his articles. The landlord lady eyes him for the rent money, but he usually avoids her sight in fear of shame. He hangs by a thin thread. He is expecting to turn over an article or get a job in one of the markets but nothing comes to fruition. He says, “No!” crying and clenching both hands; “there must be an end to this.” He’s often too prideful to realize he must accept any job that brings him money even if it doesn’t align with his principles. When friends approach him, he tries to avoid their prying words, insisting that he is doing fine. He doesn’t want to show signs of needing money or shelter. It is when he is in the pangs of desperation, that he’ll use false pretenses to ask for help.

Tangen spends his days mostly sitting on benches, observing people, or writing down lines for an article in the local newspaper. Since his stomach is empty he is unable to finish longer pieces, and so buries himself in doubtful premonitions. He talks to strangers, observes them, remarking on their appearance or their behavior towards him. A conversation for him is a universe. These interactions show the strength of social conditioning, and how few if any, are willing to get out of their comfort zone. Tangen’s experience makes it evident the preference for conventions. During his encounters, some new agitation, panic or some obsessive curiosity pester him. Yet his conflicts remain psychological, buried deep in his conscience. 

During one night a cop takes him to a boarding house for the homeless. He makes a grand story about being out all night with friends and forgetting his apartment keys. He tells the officer he is a journalist for the local newspaper, and they treat him as he appears to be, a gentleman; his clothes still look new and his appearance is not yet haggard. He becomes paranoid, thinking the officers will discover the truth. In the morning they offer everyone a ticket for breakfast, except him; he does not demand one, despite not having eaten for three days. The truth will be revealed, so he thinks. He takes leave with quickness.

Eventually his appearance begins to dull: his clothes are dirty and sweaty, and his hair begins falling in clumps. Winter has set in, taking a toll on his health. Upon entering a store, he sees a friend who offers to help him, despite Tangen’s hesitation, the friend insists. Truly he cannot hide his troubles after weeks of being without a proper meal, a shower or a change of clothes. In this way Tangen receives money in little bits from acquaintances, but not enough for an apartment or constant food. The shame and pride consume him as he notices others staring at him constantly. In an effort to lift his spirits, Tangen tries to find a place to write his articles and his upcoming novel. All he wants is a descent place, some food, a light and silence. Yet he has no alternative, but to write in public parks or in a crowded living room with kids running around.

The last crisis had dealt rather roughly with me. My hair fell out in masses, and I was much troubled with headaches, particularly in the morning, and my nervousness died a hard death. I sat and wrote during the day with my hands bound up in rags, simply because I could not endure the touch of my own breath upon them. If Jens Olaj banged the stable door underneath me, or if a dog came into the yard and commenced to bark, it thrilled through my very marrow like icy stabs piercing me from every side. I was pretty well played out. (Hamsun 65)


Le Modele Rouge, Rene Magriette
The painting Le Modele Rouge, by Rene Magriette brings to mind the decapitated feeling of poverty or the old saying walk a mile in my shoes.

Tangen, who has been driven to irrational decisions has at times lost clarity, walked in the street with a cloudy head and landed on some small cement corner to pass out. Despite not expecting kindness, only repulsion, he receives help even from the man he admires most, the Commodore, a newspaperman. Despite his many faults, he never succumbs to depression, crime or a permanent black hole, even at night when left in the wet frozen weather. All he is—is a mind, a pencil and a paper. Despite his troubles Tangen seeks beauty and laughter in the randomness of life, turning his thoughts from depressive to gleeful.

On the topic of Tangen, the author once said, “I will make my character laugh where sensible people think he ought to cry,” Hamsun exclaimed. “And why? Because my hero is no character, no ‘type,’ … but a complex, modern being.”

Hamsun carved out a character that was without a filter, writing Tangen’s voice as a stream of consciousness, staying close to the reader, instead of hiding the character behind a decorative veil. We can see his mishaps, excuses, and comedic denials. We understand at once that he is human. Some may identify with the Tangen when he doubts his religious faith, as he goes from a believer to one angered by a God who ignores him.  To question God in this manner, was relevant at the time; a rebellious undertaking.

I tell you, you Heaven’s Holy Baal, you don’t exist; but that, if you did, I would curse you so that your Heaven would quiver with the fire of hell! I tell you, I have offered you my service, and you repulsed me; and I turn my back on you for all eternity, because you did not know your time of visitation! I tell you that I am about to die, and yet I mock you!

Tangen’s faith goes up and down like a seesaw, making it evident that his faith is not a profound one. He also uses religious praises almost to a comedic level— and the next minute, he is awfully mad at God. It is perhaps a satirical commentary on the tomfoolery of religious ardor at the time. Considering his age it is likely he was still discovering his faith.

In A wanderer plays on muted string, we see brief mentions of God, not in bombastic fashion, but rather done humbly—possibly due to the the theme of wandering in nature. Hunger has an urban setting, with people, cops, carriages, bells, city clocks, benches and crowded parks. Just as there is turmoil in Tangen’s head, he gets no reprieve from the bustling streets. In A wanderer plays on muted string the main character is surrounded by the Norwegian woodlands, exemplifying the mystical bond between man and his environment. It is an ode to Pantheism, which the author Hansum has often been linked to. The spiritual movement of Pantheism ties mankind to the universe and nature as the beginning and the end. It respects scientific evidence and reason, but does not include the anthropomorphic worship of a being.

Hunger demonstrates the winding spiral of a healthy man. The mind, spirit and body are all connected to food sustenance.  Despite not having the main ingredients for survival, Tangen’s human spirit still flickers, allowing him a break from total depression. He is fortunate to receive help, but the same can’t be said for the homeless people we encounter on our daily commutes. Reading this makes me think about the homeless— how did they end up there? Sometimes they are ignored by the community and left for dead. It takes more than a few coins to help nowadays, but even if small, help brings hope to someone without a solid ground, whether it be with food or shelter.

In Tangen’s defense, he wasn’t a drunken fool or a lazy person. He did apply himself,  though at times his inability to face the truth of urgency debilitated him. The truth was an impending doom upon his present state. It’s hard to acknowledge the daily impossibilities of poverty for anyone. Often your circumstances make you feel guilty. His struggles show a devotion to writing that surpasses a commonplace  hobby. And even if he rarely published articles, he was always enthralled by the intellectual exercise of writing and submitting philosophical inquiries. It was the only craft left upon him that gave life, and a reason to find the means to stay alive.

The beginning

The Yellow Arrow, by the Russian writer Victor Pelevin. 1993.
photo credit: angusrobertson.com.au


A few years back I found a tiny book, The Yellow Arrow, buried in a library shelf. There was a world, a society, living and dying between the wagons and hallways of a train. When the hour arrived the choice of  life or death came to Andrei, but which one was life, the train or the nameless outside?

Through its subtle imagery, The Yellow Arrow, captures the political feeling of the 1990s, and  an underlying metaphor about searching for freedom.

  • The train is the ongoing motion of living. Train tracks, people and the sound of repetitive wheels. The people stayed there, forever inside, the wagon doors—stale and unable to get off. They lived as passengers within the main periphery, viewing life as a narrow tunnel, failing to explore what was beyond, pretending they were free  in fake communities. They were told this train here is “our life and our home.” To get out is but a dream, and even when it finally happens one cannot believe it. It takes a dreamy sequence to unveil a reality that one knew existed for so long, but held it in disbelief. When we truly live, minutes are slowed to every word and captured instance. In that moment of freeing ourselves from an idea, a life that inhibits us, we manifest a beginning separate and entirely our own, so that we may explore what lies beyond the walls of the ongoing train. We are no longer just passengers in our own lives.
  • Eventually Andrei realizes the only way he’ll be happy is by finding an escape to the outside world even if that means death. Being stuck in the train is itself a signature for a slow death. It’s time to get off.
  • Reading this book made me think about the feeling of being caged in. The ongoing train represents modern life. Writing is a way of getting out, like twisting fingers for meaning. I propose an exercise to write more frequently. What I’ll be leaving out of this blog: lines that run off in every direction with an onslaught of hyperbole, exclamations and links.  It is for the sake of finding stories, books, film, art, quotes (from the actual pages of a book) and individuals that inspire me. I thank you if you are passing by, reading or commenting.

Look out for posts – twice weekly.