You have been reading Byron. You have been marking the passages that seem to approve of your own character. I find marks against all those sentences which seem to express a sardonic yet passionate nature; a moth-like impetuosity dashing itself against hard glass. You thought, as you drew your pencil there, “I too throw off my cloak like that. I too snap my fingers in the face of destiny”. Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table - it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-handkerchief. You then stuff your handkerchief back into your pocket - that is not Byron; that is you; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years’ time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.
—The Waves, Virginia Woolf
Ways in which this particular autistic six-year-old in my class and I are secretly spirit twins:
1. He spent all of his snack time arranging a bunch of letter-magnets in a circle on the board, then stepped back with his hands on his head and cried, “Is so beautiful!”
2. I asked him to sit in his chair. He responded by flopping on to my lap and muttering, “I want another chair.”
“I want ALL the chairs.”
3. He curled up in the fetal position because the snack routine was slightly different today and did not uncurl until he was reassured that he would, in fact, get food just like every other day.
4. He spent most of the afternoon drawing butts at his desk and giggling to himself about it.
Way to ruin everything for everyone everywhere forever
Q: How many male novelists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: He lit a cigarette. His glass of whiskey lit a cigarette too. “I can only truly love my best friend,” he said, “but not in a gay way. Women wouldn’t understand it. They’re too gay.” Both of the cigarettes agreed.
Winning the Nobel Prize was not the most important moment of Doris Lessing’s extraordinary and prolific life, and it seems as though some of her critics won’t forgive her for not pretending that it was.
This looks batshit insane. I can’t fucking wait.