There was a time when I felt compelled to keep an eye on what I read from a point of view of what might be socially desirable.

There – that’s a mouthful.

There was the possibility, at one time, that I might have an academic career, and I think I thought I had better read what would be considered ‘interesting’.

I got good marks for my essays.  I had got to a point where I thought I had to leave the course, or throw everything I had at it – embrace what was there on the table for the picking-up, if I dared.

The table, by that time, had lost its fourth leg.

Over the space of a year and a half-term, everything I had held dear had been knocked out from under me.

I decided to take hold of the broken table, never mind what might have been on it.

I wrote my essays using popular fiction techniques.

And started reading more literary-style fiction.

These days, I don’t keep on my shelves anything that I don’t like, or think I won’t read again.

It is the writer who makes the text, although that writer cannot be found there.

 

If you ate crystals, wouldn’t they cut your insides – as powdered glass that murderers sometimes use?

Would it be necessary to get God’s blessing before partaking of it?

 

 

 

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