I started a new book today. First line: "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
I can sit with my coffee obsessing about a sentence like this for days, and, well, I guess I will.
I am in awe of the way the greats such as Proust, Dickens, Joyce, Chekov, Fitzgerald, Bronte and, of course, my beloved Hemingway could arrange only a few words that disrupted societies, created world-changing outcries of emotions and, on a smaller scale, send a lonely aspiring writer into a spiral of daydreams that linger indefinitely...all this decades after their graves have grown cold.
