The writers we absorb when we're young bind us to them, sometimes lightly, sometimes with iron. In time, the bonds fall away, but if you look very closely you can sometimes make out the pale white groove of a faded scar, or the telltale chalky red of old rust.

I spoke French a bit, and I could speak a bit of this and that, and when you were taught those things by people who couldn&#39;t really do it, you can do some pretty wonderfully, imaginative horrific things to teachers.

sorrow is the mother of a general compassion,

Doesn't MATTER what you DO, I'll MAKE anyway.

Written By Hendrietta Langeveldt

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