“that is the way with books. you regret only the ones you did not buy.”
this essentially sums up my experience and relationship with books. i love books and i love art so much, they make me feel things that i cannot put into words. yet winterson does it so well and so eloquently, with such great clarity. this is a collection of, as the title suggests, essays on art. from discussions on woolf to ts eliot and art & sexuality, she presents her own perspective with her distinct voice and great conviction in tone.
one of my favourite parts was when she mentioned that art is not meant to be rushed through, and so it is true, art takes time. to enjoy and to create. she speaks of words and the function and use of words, the ability and potential of words. i even feel like i am doing the book an injustice by speaking of it in a way that is less eloquent or beautifully-put with a lack of aptness contrary to how all the essays in her book were written.
all i can say is that if you love words or books or art, you should read this.