tears
I’m reading This, and, on the train this morning, breaking down in a little sobbing jag on page149, page191 and 197 to 199.
Then, on page 198 of a very quick, and, at times, slightly, well, slight book, I came across this:
“I was also dwelling on the pain of impermanence, the way love is always on loan, never the next egg we want it to be,” and I realised that poetry - the ability to use a few simple words to express the joy or beauty or sheer agonising pain of the human condition in a way that turns a seemingly entirely personal experience into a universally understandable one - is still the most beautiful and sometimes magical of the arts.
Who needs frigging Wizards? Pah!