I’ve found a new (to me) writer and I’m feeling myself get excited about books again. I’ve missed that in the last few months and it feels good to have that energy back. In fact, I was pulling out old favorites this afternoon bc reading Amy Bloom has given me a little taste of some old friends whom I haven’t visited in a while. My two oldest dearest favorites are Virgina Woolf (L) and Jeanette Winterson (R). I ran across this picture of JW on her website and it immediately reminded me of Ms. Woolf. Kind of makes you wonder what’s going on over there, doesn’t it?
At any rate, this afternoon I was skimming Written on the Body and remembering how much this story meant to me as a high schooler. I devoured this book. Everything that both of these women wrote really. They sustained me, helped me make sense of the world. So, I’m including the last paragraph of the book here because it continues to be the best ending that I have ever read.
This is where the story starts, in this threadbare room. The walls are exploding. The windows have turned into telescopes. Moons and stars are magnified in this room. The sun hangs over the mantelpiece. I stretch out my hand and reach the corners of the world. The world in bundled up in this room. Beyond the door, where the river is, where the roads are, we shall be. We can take the world with us when we go and sling the sun under your arm. Hurry now, it’s getting late. I don’t know if this is a happy ending, but here we are let loose in open fields.