We read in order to take the other(s) into ourselves, to change and to not-change. We read to trip.
I read that James Robertson Justice died broken and penniless. His booming voice and beard was my childhood: warm sometimes, cold others: scary.
I read a letter in which a proud commuter talks about tying the straps of annoying tourists’ annoying backpacks to the hand straps on the tube.
I read an article that says in the late 1930s there was a whole load of Jewish people here (and the Bloomsbury group) all stocking up on cyanide in case of invasion. This presented an ethical dilemma for doctors. Judith Kerr’s dad asked for the Nazi-defying poison and his doctor gave him chalk.