Come sister, take my hand, and then you take hers. Maybe we will be able to let this horse head pass us by, if the three of us stare long and hard enough. We stepped out of the metropolis to follow him meekly. Closing the glass doors on summer, we started this winding through endless… Continue reading The British Museum, 1979
The Writer, My Idol
When exiting Amsterdam Central Station, it’s impossible to pass by the little bookstore near the exit/entrance, without looking inside. Today I saw her new book there, stacked in big piles. I went in, picked one up and flicked through the pages. When I started to work at my publishing house, the mention of her name… Continue reading The Writer, My Idol
