One evening last fall, my roommate and I watched the movie How To Be Single. I knew I’d hate it, and I was right. I hated it for multiple reasons, chief among which is this: these movies are inevitably not about being … Continue reading
On a recent visit to Strand Books, down in the memoir section where I was looking for Arthur Miller’s Timebends, something caught my eye: a book I have owned and loved and recommended for years.
There were three physical copies of Christina Haag’s Come to the Edge in our apartment already. My own is personally signed to me by its author; I bought one for my flatmate’s last birthday; the third is because on my first attempt at buying this present, I was sent one with a minor coffee stain on the pages. My flatmate might not have minded: she’s a dog-earer; that’s how she expresses her love of books. It is not, however, how I express mine. And this book deserves better than that. I got her a new one, but kept the old one for – well, I’m not sure what for, exactly.
Claire Handscombe 