Status Updates From Po co ci szczęście, jeśli m...

“Sí, las historias son peligrosas, ella tenía razón. Un libro es una alfombra mágica que te transporta volando a cualquier sitio. Un libro es una puerta. La abres. La cruzas. ¿Volverás?”

We’re so back #renewed my expired library card

Like most people, when I look back, the family house is held in time, or rather it is now outside of time, because it exists so clearly and it does not change, and it can only be entered through a door in the mind.

She hated the small and the mean, and yet that is all she had. I bought a few big houses myself along the way, simply because I was trying out something for her. In fact, my tastes are more modest - but you don't know that until you have bought and sold for the ghost of your mother.

All those hours spent sitting on my bum on the doorstep have given me a feeling for liminal space. I love the way cats like to be half in half out, the wild and the tame, and I too am the wild and the tame. I am domestic, but only if the door is open.
And I guess that is the key - no one is ever going to lock me in or lock me out again. My door is open and I am the one who opens it.

she knew of a family whose youngest child had climbed into the fridge to play hide-and-seek, and frozen to death.
They had to defrost the fridge to prise him out. After that the council took away the other children. I wondered why they didn't just take away the fridge.

…poured paraffin over the books and set them on fire. I watched them blaze and blaze and remember thinking how warm it was, how light, on the freezing Saturnian January night. And books have always been light and warmth to me.