On learning to let “grit” go.
“There are those who fail to realize how deeply Thompson cared about his country. He was a product of it.”
“I am three days aged in Lagos and cry as my fingers turn the first page.”
Inside his sewing box was an old girlfriend’s felt heart, stuck with pins. Throw it out, he says. I don’t.
There is opportunity in forcibly rewriting a story, in trying out identities that might not feel true at first.
“My cousin’s gift was validation, a connection I hadn’t even realized I was looking for.”
“To be an amateur is to let one’s leisure activities remain indifferent to the whims of capital.”
“Unlike most popular orphan characters, I wasn’t too young to remember my parents.”
Briggs didn’t create the monster lurking under the bed, he just told us it was there.
It is the act of recording all this data that has helped me step away from identifying so strongly with it.
“My reading trajectory hadn’t equipped me with how I saw myself.”
The stuff we talk about after we finish with our weekly outrage.
I wanted the most information possible and thought I had nothing to fear. Then my mother began to lose her memory.