Ecclesiastes 11:1, the art of giving, and the peculiar futility of being alive “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.” — Ecclesiastes 11:1 There’s something heartbreakingly hopeful about that line, isn’t there? Something that makes you want to nod sagely, as if you understand it, even though - … Continue reading Bread Upon the Waters
Tag: Life
A Referendum on Death
Foreword: A Note on Silence There are some things you are not supposed to say. That killing people, however nicely, is still killing people. That terminal illness does not grant others the right to pre-empt God. That what Parliament calls dignity might look suspiciously like abandonment in disguise. But here I am. And here, I … Continue reading A Referendum on Death
“Drop, Drop, Slow Tears” – A Meditation in the Margins
By a hopeless penitent with a bookshelf and a leaky conscience At the opening of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Ruth, before we meet the orphaned seamstress or the soft-hearted Bensons, we are met with tears. Not sentimental ones, but slow, penitential tears - each drop a silent argument for mercy. The chosen epigraph, “Drop, drop, slow tears”, … Continue reading “Drop, Drop, Slow Tears” – A Meditation in the Margins
The Secret Lives (and Afterlives) of Objects: A Meditation in Dust and Cup Handles
I’ve long suspected that my toaster is plotting something. Not out of any deeply held belief in sentient kitchenware, you understand, but because it simply feels too knowing. Its chrome glint catches the morning light with what can only be described as smugness. It pops the toast an inch too soon, as if to say, “Timing is … Continue reading The Secret Lives (and Afterlives) of Objects: A Meditation in Dust and Cup Handles
Confessions of a Shandean: Or, How I Came to Love a Book That Can’t Keep Its Trousers On
I must begin, dear reader, with a warning: Tristram Shandy is not a novel - it is a literary striptease performed by a madman with a feather quill and far too much time on his hands. Approaching it as one might approach a standard narrative is like bringing a map to a dream: utterly useless … Continue reading Confessions of a Shandean: Or, How I Came to Love a Book That Can’t Keep Its Trousers On
Wording 