A birthmark

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.

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