Portrait of the artist about 15 years ago

At the end of last week I found a time capsule. It was filled with books:
Everything by Scott Fitzgerald. A couple of the volumes of Simone de Beauvoir’s autobiography. Literary Theory by Terry Eagleton. Books on roller skating, break dancing, being a disc jockey. Nattering on the Net: Women, Power and Cyberspace by Dale Spender. Harold Pinter, Joan Littlewood, Caryl Churchill, Bertolt Brecht. Autobiographies by Dorothy Hewitt and Boy George. Cyberpunk. The James Herriot novels. Backlash by Susan Faludi and The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf. Radclyffe Hall, Anita Loos and Anaïs Nin. Lots of books on Marilyn Monroe. Mikhail Sholokhov, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemmingway. Everything (up to the mid 90s) by Jeanette Winterson and Greg Egan. Almost the entire Sesame Street Library Volumes 1–15 (just missing Volume 13).  Biographies of Nico and Malcolm McLaren. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. George Orwell. Truman Capote. Gertrude Stein. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf was read during the space of one afternoon while I reclined on a 1930s daybed on our front porch (or at least in my memory it is a 1930s daybed). That afternoon happened about 15 years ago.

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