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This is what I’ve been reading for the past week. Just a quick doodle; I’m back at work and I’m swamped! Ciao.

She was one of those people who was born for the greatness of a single love, for exaggerated hatred, for apocalyptic vengeance, and for the most sublime forms of heroism but she was unable to shape her fate to the dimensions of her amorous vocation, so it was lived out as something flat and gray trapped between her mother’s sickroom walls, wretched tenements, and the tortured confessions with which this large, opulent, hot-blooded woman made for maternity, abundance, action, and ardor- was consuming herself.[1]

It’s an oddly yummy book.

[1] Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits (1982; New York, 1985), 224.