“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”Virginia Woolf
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When Geoff and I began looking for a home in France, a room to serve as a library was a prerequisite; by the time we had been married three decades, and my brother John had offloaded the remaining family books still in storage with his former employers… well, let’s just say, there where a great many cases to be packed when in 2012 we decamped across the Channel. And of course, as neither of us can pass a second-hand bookshop, or indeed a charity bookshop, and people keep writing wondrous new books, the collection has grown.
I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately. About how it works, how it changes, what it means in the shape of our lives and how we see ourselves. I’ve always spent a lot of time in my own distant past. I say ‘always’, but it probably only dates from when my mother died, so from when I was fourteen. Because of that, I have memories from before then which are highly polished, burnished even; treasured. I have visited them often and I suspect that with each repetition, they alter just a little, until they take on a sort of mythical quality. Try to Remember
All previous blog entries are to be found on this page: Thoughts, Scribblings…
New Page: Sarah’s Books
Take a look for book reviews, starting with Taste, by Stanley Tucci: Food for the soul
Visit the ‘My Books’ page for links to buy my novels
Visit My Fan Fiction Page for this month’s featured story
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