Identity, fragile, gives way to identity…
I’m finishing a book at the moment, and I recently discovered that I hate a chapter title. Hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. Hate hate hate it. Were it alive, I would kill it, then do everything in my power to bring it back to life, just so I could kill it again.
Books eat other books just as surely as hamsters eat their young. A friend of mine who raises pigs once told me a pig has to eat three pounds of feed for every single pound of meat it produces.
Welcome to a table piled with a potluck of literature. If you think about it, all writers and readers are connected by our own ancient internet of literature.