I read a few chapters of Jeanette Winterson's book last night and a few this morning. It's not an autobiography as such, it feels like her thoughts mingled with fiction with fact and you can hear her saying it aloud. This is why I like it so much. And it reminds me of things, things that I knew but were not said, or thought clearly. Some people at her reading said how she inspired them, (young women from Accrington and others) how she resonated with them, how she made them laugh and think. All these things.
Reading her book from her comments reminds me why I too used to read so much. It isn't to lose yourself, it is to find.
There is a coldness to a childhood in the north of England, was, physically due to lack of heating and the weather. There was warmth, a lot of warmth, I had a very happy childhood, but at the edges there is a coldness. Parents weren't involved, children had their own world, there was a difference that now blends between children and parents. If you're lucky.
But we found out on our own. And I read. It's good to be reminded.
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