This is a song to sing each evening , as the
sun fades and we settle into ourselves, with its requiem of beauty:
"We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have
swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom,
characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if
caves.
I
wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such
cartography — to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like
the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories,
communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”
– Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
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