re-read jeanette winterson’s weight in the library today, waiting for the rain to stop so i could walk home instead of taking the bus.  copied down a bunch of quotes, and so, instead of spamming you with them, i’m just going to dump them all here.

i have another notebook somewhere, likely in the box of them that’s still in storage, that has all of these quotes and probably more from this book in it.  weight wasn’t, i don’t think, my first winterson, but it was the first time while reading her that i sat up and went “oh.  oh.” and so i count it as the beginning of my love affair with her.  (i don’t think it was my first because i’m pretty sure i read at least one of her longer works in junior high, when i would go the library next to the grounds every day after school, and wander around, choosing books to take out based on their covers or titles as much as their descriptions.  i gobbled up so many books then, i’d be surprised if i remembered even half of them.  (even so, i read less in junior high than i did in elementary, if only because i had actual friends for the first time, as opposed to one, singular, friend.)  but i am pretty sure that i read at least one winterson then.)

weight speaks to me, like much of winterson’s work, because of her willingness to put herself into the narrative.  she is writing herself, and she is doing a beautifully heartbreaking job of it.  i identify with all of these so fucking hard.

notes:

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