Loaned a book by a friend, written in the early 1900s by the Scottish
author Catherine Carswell—in the preface, this from her unfinished
autobiography Lying Awake: “Writing—for women. Inherent difficulties.”
"Retrieved the tiniest spider from the beard of a friend—how do those tiny spiders just appear like that, from nowhere at all? Are they the ones floating about the atmosphere on silk strings, like weightless many-legged balloons?"
Will be thinking about this beauty all weekend, thank you! I adore your newsletter, it's a gift.
There’s something in each of your ‘Sometimes Newsletters’ that feels like a tiny seed deposited into my body. 🌱 Thank you
This is the absolute loveliest, thank you.
"Retrieved the tiniest spider from the beard of a friend—how do those tiny spiders just appear like that, from nowhere at all? Are they the ones floating about the atmosphere on silk strings, like weightless many-legged balloons?"
Will be thinking about this beauty all weekend, thank you! I adore your newsletter, it's a gift.
Kindest, kindest note, such things provide reason to carry on noticing the spiders, to never think them ordinary.