"i like nonfiction books about people with wretched lives." // d. sedaris

i was once a voracious reader - the fatter the fiction, the better.

i was the girl that took all 1488 pages of vikram seth's a suitable boy on a sun-shiny holiday - instead of sunning myself, i sat under the lushest palm i could find, to banish the tan i didn't want, and to keep the sun out of my eyes so that i could read from the moment i had that first breakfast piña colada, to that last ruddy-cheeked moment in the breeze of the evening.

yet somewhere in the time between my late twenties and late - sorry, i lost my train of thought - i've become the unwilling bystander to the made-up, the far-fetched, to fantasy.

whether it's having feet too firmly fit in earth to read about make-believe - non-fiction - essays, long-form articles, gorgeous periodicals, magazines filled with page after page of pretty, memoirs and auto-and-solo-biographies are the only tales as of late that i have a taste, and time for. if it's an allegory or fairy tale that i'm after, the closest i'm getting to that - is in the telling of histories of those who turned their imaginations inside out and those who print out the pictures in their head, and put them on the page in glossy and gorgeous colour.




➝ source : hunger makes me a modern girl / by carrie brownstein

➝ source : define magazine, find it: here

➝ source :  the folded clock / by heidi julavits

➝ source :  cereal, issue #11, coming soon! a few copies of #10 are still available!


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