Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them;
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
My birthmark is invisible, like all the books piled up in every corner
of my memory. I simply lack the sturdy biography, steeped in dramatic
paradoxes, that has served so many so well. And I guess there really is
no point in apologising for my occasional outbursts of mauvaise conduite.
After all, there is always room for one more Shakespeare’s little sister.
hidden pilcrow 