Reading it atlast. On the inside cover, a scribbled note: to Goalie Tapash, your Portuguese friend.
Have seen this book amongst Dad's collection for as long as I can remember, but never read it before.
It feels strangely awkward and embarrassing. Like meeting a man in the evening, in his drawing room, when his most intimate conversation, which you evesdropped on in the afternoon, is still fresh in your head.
Been a while since I saw or read Henry and June, but the impact is still fresh; And will be, a while.
Originally Posted at Prerona.