No word about poets and Thatcher’s death

It had almost symbolic character when the sun came out in Canterbury this morning, I hid in the library, bookshops and every other place that contained readable material. I felt so grown, taller and my stride stronger walking up to top of the hill. Half term gives us all room to breathe.

Two lessons I learned. One, in life. One, with Freud: It struck something deep inside knowing that only the troubled mind can be creative – or let’s say, creative beyond a certain level, to imagine your own world… but does it not take a distinct seriousness and belief in a piece to be a successful novelist?

Freud did not lose one word about poets, they seem to be a creation of the past, in his eyes. Fascinating to get this fresh perspective… there is more to connect in my head. I want to give poetry a chance.

The first thing I read when coming home: Margret Thatcher died. A good day for death indeed. Then I looked for a garlic mushroom recipe, found one and started cooking.

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