Deborah

@deborahzafer.bsky.social

Reading, writing, rabbits 🐇 ✡️ Director of European Writers Salon @saloneurope.bsky.social London www.deborahzafer.com https://substack.com/@deborahzafer

London loves, won’t you join us please to discuss this extraordinary book, finally being republished to the admiration it so richly deserves

Martin Koerner@koernputer.bsky.social · last wk.

This book is absolutely miraculous. Delighted to say we have an event at Foyles on the 13th August with @amykey.bsky.social @regretteruane.bsky.social Alice Vincent and Megan Hunter- also 🤞🏼, we shall be recieving a phone call from Joan Barfoot during the event! www.foyles.co.uk/events/unear...

Just explaining to my daughter how, when I gave my phone number to a boy, I had to sit by the phone all day and night to make sure my dad didn't answer and embarass me if they ever did ring Some things ARE better now

An old phone

Gavin Maxwell’s RING OF BRIGHT WATER probably qualifies … this is where he impulse-buys a lemur (from Harrods) & it nearly kills him: “I got the tourniquet on and a cigarette lit and began to think about Kiko. The psychoanalysis of a lemur, I realized, would present insuperable problems.”

I excused this on the ground that she had interpreted my movement as a gesture of aggression. The next time I used my arms rather than my hands to cover my eyes, and Kiko lost balance and fell to the floor. She seemed to me to be making angry feints at my legs, but I was unaware of any actual contact before I noticed, with something very like panic, that I was standing in a large and rapidly widening puddle of blood. I knew that nothing but an artery could have produced that astonishing volume; I got out of the room somehow, and made for the bathroom, leaving behind me a trail of blood that appeared appropriate to a slaughterhouse. There I found that my tibial artery was sticking out of my calf like a black cigarette end, and spouting blood to a distance of more than a foot. I soaked a handkerchief and tried to apply a tourniquet, but my knowledge had deserted me; I could not remember the pressure point. At the end of several minutes trying here and there I estimated that I had by now lost something like two pints of blood, and I wasted several more seconds trying to calculate how soon I should lose consciousness, for I was already beginning to feel weak and shaky. I made out that at the present rate of loss I had a little over five minutes, and I was searching wildly for some thread to tie the artery when I suddenly had a perfect mental picture of a huge wall chart showing the venous system in red and the arterial in blue. The tibial artery, of course, only surfaced at the groin. I got the tourniquet on and a cigarette lit and began to think about Kiko. The psychoanalysis of a lemur, I realized, would present insuperable problems.

The art critic John Berger once wrote that men in paintings act, women appear: 'Men look at women whereas women watch themselves being looked at.' And so it is with Harold Knight's prosaically titled 'Woman Reading,' from 1932.

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Would love to read a memoir where someone tries to walk a path or tame a wild animal and it all goes to shit and they do not learn anything at all about life but it is well written