Turkish, for example, had a suffix, -miş, that you put on verbs to report anything you didn’t witness personally. You were always stating your degree of subjectivity. You were always thinking about it, every time you opened your mouth.
Posted in bookmaggot, words | Comments Off on the idiot, by elif batuman
Then came the inexplicable shame. Of not being believed. Of not being worth more.
Posted in bookmaggot, grief | Comments Off on stolen, by anne-helén laestadius
“I feel a responsibility,” Mom said. “You always want to feel responsible for everything,” Lauren said. “And that’s so bad?” “It’s like—you want to feel guilty about it, like you’re being selfless, but you’re not, you’re just making it all about you.”
Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on the fourth child, by jessica winter
“…friendship risks the end of friendship…”
Posted in bookmaggot, friends, grief | Comments Off on the candy house, by jennifer egan
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