What she told herself was true, she thought, and wondered what else she could tell herself. / I have invented fictions of myself that seem truer than what I think I know, she thought. / The fiction of self as invention is the only credible fiction... Read More

It was the Thirties once again. Shop doors / opened on hunger and long queues for soup, / the poor, clothed by the same half-empty stores, / stood round in doorways in a ragged group; / the unemployed were drunk in railway stations, / rumours of war played on a constant loop... Read More