" I tell Ceri, this is most likely when I developed an utter love of literature.
The Adventures of Tom Sayer.
David Copperfield.
The Little Prince.
Then Cervantes.
Balzac.
Nabokov.
Capote.
Some of Miller – but my folks found out and said I was too young for that.
I tell Ceri, most likely this is when I developed my inner fears.
But that would be an oversimplification.
Some-times he used to come around when my mum wasn't there, and Dad was always tired and angry cause he couldn't find a job.
And when they had done drinking and Dad was resting, sometimes he would come to my room and we'd read together.
He would pull me out of my bed, put me on his knees and hold me tight and read Verne or Rimbaud or Carroll.
In candlelight, we would read Dickens and Doyle.
Salinger as well.
I tell Ceri, this is most likely when my brain started to repress memories and wounds.
Then one day they had an argument, Mum was crying a lot that day and at one point came to my room and hugged me till night.
We moved out of there shortly after, we moved to a smaller house and I never saw him again.


The first time I meet her, I tell Ceri this is just another story now.
No need to worry about anything, really.
I tell her, I don't even read Rimbaud or Cervantes anymore, you know. "

― Gian Andrea , connections