2011 self
TITLED
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird,” said May Kasahara...
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SELFTITLED
“...everybody’s born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand. It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What I’d really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I can’t seem to do it. They just don’t get it. Of course, the problem could be that I’m not explaining it very well, but I think it’s because they’re not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they’re not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things.”
—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle Haruki Murakami
SELFTITLED
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Three Cups of Tea
Sputnik Sweetheart
The Pearl 1984
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
Harry Potter Knits The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle Style A to Z
Boo
Oh, Were They Ever Happy!
Stitch ‘N Bitch
How to Make Books
Norwegian Wood
Betty Bear’s Birthday Kitchen Window Plants
Kafka on the Shore Never Let Me Go
A Separate Peace
Organize, Now! Pride & Prejudice
Lost opportunities, lost possibilities,
feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library. One of the pleasures of living in a small, old-fashioned New England town is that it generally includes a small, old-fashioned post office. Ours is particularly agreeable. It’s in an attractive Federal-style brick building, confident but not flashy, that looks like a post office ought to. It even smells nice--a combination of gum adhesive and
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SELFTITLED
I’m a Stranger Here Myself
old central heating turned up a little too high. The next shot jumps to Karen and Tom arguing over whether or not to “go in after him.” At this point it remains unclear to whom they are referring: There are several more shots. Trees in winter. Blood on the kitchen floor. One shot of a child (Daisy) crying. Then back to Navidson: “Nothing but this tape which I’ve seen enough times, it’s more like a memory than anything else. And I still don’t know: was he right or just out of his mind?”
The Scarlet Letter Urban Farming Waiter Rant
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
ok of Shadows
Nancy Drew
Caffeine for the Creative Mind
Reading Lolita in Tehran
Quilting Patterns
2011 self
TITLED:
JACLYN SALEM
Followed by three more shots.
and one morning, by the time he’d shared a pot of butter tea with his hosts and laced up his boots, he’d
Dark hallways.
become a humanitarian who’d found a meaningful path to follow for the rest of his life. This story about
Windowless rooms.
good food begins in a quick-stop convenience market. It was our family’s last day in Arizona.
Stairs.
Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find
You have to accept that sometimes that’s how things
the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen
happen in this world. People’s opinions, their feelings,
table. There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t
they go one way, then the other. It just so happens you
know what to do with himself — not just sometimes,
grew up at a certain point in this process.
but always. When he was in school he longed to be out,
One Saturday morning while their parents are away, the
and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he
three Noonan children decide to paint the house. In
thought about coming home, and coming home he thought
this impoverished community of mud and stone huts, both
about going. Wherever he was he wished he were
Mortenson’s life and the lives of northern Pakistan’s
somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why
children changed course. One evening, he went to bed
he’d bothered. Nothing really interested him — least
by a yak dung fire a mountaineer who’d lost his way,
of all the things that should have.
SELFTITLED
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