I was in Savannah a few weeks ago with friends. We walked down the tree lined avenues, lazily in the heat, snapping photos of monuments and foliage. We passed a large church, twin steeples rising high into the blue, architecture modeled on cathedrals of old Europe. A block from there,
Grinding away at my ever growing stack o’ tomes, I picked up Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. Ishiguro is a Booker-prize winning Japanese-British author, an a fine writer. This was a quick read, enjoyable and moving. Warning: spoilers follow. Our narrator is Kathy H., a self-described “carer” who
I’m not sure what path I took, but I stumbled across this website a few weeks ago. I recalled it was one of my friend’s favorite books, so I decided to read through a few chapters. Besides, it was dead-time at work and I was bored. Thankfully, I’
For so long I’ve felt burdened. It’s not a crushing weight, nothing deadly or torturous. It doesn’t leave me gasping for breath, the sweaty skin of my face ground into gravel or concrete. But it’s there, tinting everything a touch of gray. It’s subtle, the
…has been entirely too much …not nearly enough …but I did spot