Reading Maya Angelou at the DMV is a bizarre experience. Definitely not the best environment for gushing enthusiasm. Yet, there is a point.

On a train, in the corner of a room, at a park, under the blankets, in the bath, at the steps of a staircase, at your desk, with friends, in public. I don’t think I ever fully grasped the responsibility of being able to carry words. I can read anywhere, anytime. I can have a conversation with any text. I can recite Robert Frost to the counter clerk at a supermarket and all I’ll get is either a nod or a strange glance.

A word after a word after a word is power.

Margaret Atwood, everyone.

I can choose the quotes I like. I can choose the authors and poets.

How cool is that?

How privileged is that?

Postscript: apologies if you received a previous version of this in your inbox. I seem to be excellent at mistaking the “publish” button for “save draft.”


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