There is nothing wrong with somebody living alone. I’m always happy to recall the memories of those periods of my life that I experienced without a relationship. Good heavens! How much time I had for myself, for my friends, for going to the cinema, for evening walks, for big chats on the bank of a river. How many plans I devised, how many ideas I had, how many things I started. It always makes me smile to remember that since I had plenty of spare time on Sunday mornings I taught English and I spent the money I earned on guitar lessons and art workshops. I didn’t lean playing the guitar, I can’t draw in a professional way but I made several interesting acquaintances and friends, I always was a very happy single woman.
When All Seems Lost — and Even When It Doesn’t… As a writer, I read more than average. Not necessarily books that fall within my immediate interests, but rather those I can learn from, marvel at, analyze word by word, and sometimes even those that demand more effort from me than usual. That is how it is with Alice Munro. I bought my first book by her when she received the Nobel Prize. Then life happened, and the volume sat on my bookshelf—either I had no time for it, or it lingered somewhere at the bottom of my list of priorities. When I finally picked it up, I could hardly believe my eyes—or my reaction. First, I was utterly outraged; my blood pressure shot through the roof in an instant, and I almost started swearing in disbelief. I had barely skimmed the first few lines, yet that was enough to know: it was perfect. A true masterpiece. Excellence among the excellent. Every word reached the deepest layers of my soul. I was touched by its purity, its delicacy, the noblest simpli...
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