Winterson

I am too huge for love. No one, male or female, has ever dared to approach me. They are afraid to scale mountains. 
--Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry

So the latest in my reading buffet:

Sexing the Cherry and The Powerbook, both by Jeanette Winterson. You may be sensing a pattern here. I trust Winterson, as an author, to indulge me in the fantastical, if it be only in the manipulation of metaphor. But sometimes it is much simpler - sometimes she simply writes me:

"I have set off and found that there is no end to even the simplest journey of the mind. I begin, and straight away a hundred alternative routes present themselves. I choose one, no sooner begin, than a hundred more appear. Every time I try to narrow down my intent I expand it, and yet those straits and canals still lead me to the open sea, and then I realize how vast it all is, this matter of the mind."

While there are often false starts in what can only be called Winterson's faux narrative, you can never get too wrapped up in a particular "reality." I feel like that's more accurate to how we live live anyway -- all our narratives are made up, only attempts (some more feeble than others) to make the story of our lives make sense. Our lives are stories and it takes only a pen and paper to write them.