They don’t burn books anymore. That’s what people don’t understand. Burning implies the thing still matters. What they do is quieter than that. A form. A reclassification. A gentle note from the Cultural Alignment Office informing you that your property has been assessed and redistributed for community benefit. You get a receipt. Very civilised.
I used to be a writer. I had forty years of notebooks. I got a receipt.
I don’t write now. I want to be clear about that, in case anyone is unclear. I am a retired man with a bad hip and a fondness for instant coffee and I don’t write. My hands are for opening tins and pointing at things on screens. That’s all.
Continue reading “What I Do With My Hands”
