A writer must travel, it is usually said. A writer must leave his desk, discover other cultures and so on and so on. A writer must not be like Kant, who designed an entire moral system without ever leaving his small town. Read more →
Rio de Janeiro bears the weight of this karma. It lost its title as capital of the colony, the Empire and the Republic and transformed from the Marvellous City into the divided city, split between entrenched poverty and a cosmopolitan middle class, surrounded by beautiful hills and the ocean. Read more →
The sun shakes me a little, quite agreeably. It’s then that I feel an indescribable urge to head to the seafront, to breathe in the Pacific, that smell of early autumn sea where the breeze and the soft drizzle blend into one, an urge to eat ceviche, to cycle around and look out at the ocean. Read more →
In its sensuous immediacy, the world, its fields, hills, mountains, streams, seas and many skies, heat and cold, wet and dry, its secret past unfolds. This world, this mind holds our secrets, secrets of origin, of unfolding and of end.
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Ivanka Trump, doe-eyed, swan-necked, impeccable of carriage and costume, moves with the poise of a young queen, has her own business empire, knows when not to talk, and can sell without appearing to try. Read more →
‘Look,’ she points. ‘See how it moves in the breeze, how the gold threads dance in the sunshine. It shimmers like silk.’ He is interested and follows her gaze. They lie close, their bare arms touching.‘Oh, yes,’ he tells her. ‘That’s the diffraction of light on the fibres.’ Read more →