I wrote about my bookshelf.
About Maupassant, whom I love the way some people love music.
About Rilke, who taught me that solitude is a discipline. About Bataille, who refuses to separate the sacred from the profane.
About Bulgakov’s Devil and his giant talking cat.
About Tolstoy knowing things he shouldn’t have been able to know.
And about De Sade, who sits on the shelf next to Rilke, which is either irony or honesty and I’ve never decided which.

The diary is up.

J x

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