I like what Mr Ondaatje’s writings do to me.
They take me to a world without maps, to where I can find love in the beat of the wind and the shine of the desert.
“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.
I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”
“All I ever wanted was a world without maps.”
“A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water.”
“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”
