At Certain Points We Touch

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I didn’t have it in me to read about the detailed descriptions of male genitals as JJ reminisces about the nude pictures they had been sent.

He’s described as selfish, professing both to kinks and to political views that are either ironic or despicable. you died before I fell out of love with you" is the pain at the heart of this memoir/tribute to a fallen lover. And I think I must be getting old, or I’ve read that story too often, because my patience for it is not so much worn thin as entirely dissolved.But why should a Myspace profile be preserved when whole civilisations have been annihilated to boost the egos of European monarchs? The writing in this one was really wonderful, I have to say that, and that was one of the reasons I thought I was going to like this book way more than I did. This is one of the few—if not the only—case wherein a prologue has enticed me to read on; sweetly drawing me in with a writing style that was heavily prosed without being excessively vapid for the sake of keeping a word count.

It would mark the beginning of a deep if unlikely friendship between the then thirtysomething journalist, born in London to Indian immigrants, and the octogenarian Wugas, both of whom had fled Nazi Germany on the Kindertransport. I hesitate to say ‘characters’ there, both because I am uncertain how much this work toes the line of biographical, but also because they seemed so honestly real to me. JJ is someone who is incredibly naive while being willfully ignorant, almost seeking to place themselves into situations wherein they are tumbled like dry leaves. My days are long past of days I’d be found in bar in San Francisco to a packed house of filled with ‘dress-to-kill’ people…. I don’t mean that, as a compliment, only a thought that comes to mind when I think of the world where left to deal with now”.All along, there are friends, artists, art, parties, performances, lovers, collaborations, heartbreak, betrayal, more art, more performances, and more parties.

Plot-driven readers will probably go a bit mad waiting for more “things to happen”, but interiority-driven ones will lap this up. I acknowledge that some of these earlier encounters were pertinent to the book—I suppose one could say that each scene was pertinent given whom we know JJ to be—yet, once again, I found myself reading something that I would not have selected for myself had I known that sexual encounters were to be described with such specific detail. Another part describes using a T-shirt to clean up spunk in the same motion you'd use to scoop up guacamole on a tortilla chip. The narrator describes Leapling’s photography as “an experiment in seeing the world,” carried out with old cameras and even older film, such that the images might either come out beautifully or result in a series of completely black frames, streaked with red.The narrative delves slightly into her backstory which begins to shed light on her nature but there's not enough to make her sympathetic, or more unlikeable, or anything really. Life there, we learn, had been dull until a chance encounter at a post office opened up “a mirror world of counterculture” — salons in basements, parties held in petrol stations and graveyards, and the advice, immediately followed by the narrator, to forget writing and take to the stage instead. In the present, they constantly countdown ‘10 years since we met, six years since we last spoke, four years since your death’. I did like this book for the most part but this did have some moments that just dragged and it made it harder for me to read. In 2011, Chitra Ramaswamy was dispatched by her editor to interview Glasgow Jews Henry and Ingrid Wuga for a story about refugees.

Royal biographer, Robert Hardman's new book “Charles III: New King, New Court, The Inside Story” is loaded with scoops: one of its most monumental revelations is a second-by-second account of the day Queen Elizabeth II died. Their ensuing affair, with its violent, animal intensity and its intoxicating and toxic power play will initiate a dance of repulsion and attraction that will cross years, span continents, drag in countless victims – and culminate in terrible betrayal. Gargantuan heavy goods vehicles, massive petroleum tankers and enormous Coca-Cola trucks thunde[r] across the dying night, bellowing diesel through the city, causing the pavement to rumble beneath our feet. I suppose that is quite like reality; we might hold out hope for something as much as we wish but, in truth, we come upon things unprepared.Luckily, Joseph has chosen a medium sturdier than flea-market film to accomplish the same goal in this excellent debut novel. One that makes it really difficult to condemn anyone, even when they ought to be perhaps, especially in this day and age of cancel culture though, when you have the full measure, or near it, the ability to shun seems to allude to a fate worse than death. Would it insult your pride to know that I began to entertain your advances because I wanted you to replace Lulu with me; so that I could, in a way, become her, even if only in my mind and in your arms?