Speaker 1: Nights, when I drove from dark rural highways into a
Speaker 1: city wild with light. I remember you in a rented car,
Speaker 1: in blackness, a loose map on your knees, whith of
Speaker 1: us tense with sudden geography, or in an airport bus
Speaker 1: after days of solitude, as if returning to this planet
Speaker 1: from another, with time pushed back into our bodies, only
Speaker 1: our eyes holding onto each other, with the danger of
Speaker 1: our love.
Speaker 2: Sri Lankan born Canadian essayist, poet and booker prize winning
Speaker 2: novelist Michael and Daucci reading his Palm Nights when I
Speaker 2: drove from the new collection A Year of Last Things,
Speaker 2: of course it's on Dautchi. There's fierce, dangerous concers huming love.
Speaker 2: There's the vagaries of memory and metaphor. There's a map,
Speaker 2: always a map, and sudden geography. Woof, so perfect, so
Speaker 2: very michaelon Dacci. He turned eighty last year, and it's
Speaker 2: almost half a century since he published his first novel,
Speaker 2: Coming through Slaughter, even longer since he first published a poem.
Speaker 2: This is I think the forty fifth episode of Read This,
Speaker 2: and I don't mind admitting I found myself properly starstruck.
Speaker 2: When preparing for this conversation, because I've been reading Michael
Speaker 2: and Darci since I graduated from kids books. I started
Speaker 2: Within the Skin of a Lion, and while I can't
Speaker 2: remember what So spoke to teenage me about a story
Speaker 2: of nineteen thirty's Toronto, I fell in love with his voice.
Speaker 2: It was one of the books that made me a reader.
Speaker 2: I returned to it every few years and find something
Speaker 2: else in it. It's an enduring masterpiece, and since that discovery,
Speaker 2: I've been an obsessive fan. I read his poetry, The
Speaker 2: Cinnamon Peeler, the collected works of Billy the Kid Handwriting,
Speaker 2: and I read his fiction like much of the rest
Speaker 2: of the world was blown away by the English patient
Speaker 2: and it won the book a prize, and I went
Speaker 2: on to read Annamal's Ghost, The Cat's Table, Warlight the
Speaker 2: Man is one of the greats. All of which is
Speaker 2: to say I know why I was nervous. What I
Speaker 2: didn't expect is to find Michael Londacci was similarly afflicted.
Speaker 1: I didn't stop worrying about this book until quite recently.
Speaker 1: I mean, I've written lock poems before, I've written you know,
Speaker 1: other books that have that kind of closeness between people.
Speaker 1: But it was just more so I think.
Speaker 2: I'm Michael Williams, and this is read this and show
Speaker 2: about the books we love and the literary legends behind them.
Speaker 2: A Year of Last Things is a stunning book. As
Speaker 2: I've explained, I was already well and truly in the
Speaker 2: tank for michaelon Darci, but this one completely bowled me over.
Speaker 2: It's delicate and so so precise in its meditations on memory, grief,
Speaker 2: and an emotional history spanning decades. At eighty on Darci
Speaker 2: speaks with the wisdom of his age, but with the
Speaker 2: enthusiasm of someone much younger, someone who's still deeply in
Speaker 2: love with and energized by discovering his craft. For someone
Speaker 2: with such an illustrious career, awards at Accolades's international acclaim,
Speaker 2: even a breed of spider named after him, I was
Speaker 2: surprised that when our conversation began with me praising this
Speaker 2: latest gem of a book, Michaelondacci was not only modest,
Speaker 2: but actually quite tentative about the response the collection might receive.
Speaker 2: So that's where I.
Speaker 1: Wanted to begin.
Speaker 2: I would have hoped you would have the luxury of
Speaker 2: being through through the nerves being wrecked at this point
Speaker 2: of your writerly career.
Speaker 1: Yeah, I hoped it would be easier, you know, But
Speaker 1: it was a very different kind of book, more personal
Speaker 1: and more intimate and self studying to a certain extent. So,
Speaker 1: I mean, while that is always there in any book
Speaker 1: you write, whether it's a novel or a book of poems,
Speaker 1: I hadn't written a book of portray for about twenty years.
Speaker 1: I think that was a big problem.
Speaker 2: I wanted to ask about that because it was handwriting.
Speaker 2: Was what ninety eight or thereabouts.
Speaker 1: Yeah, But then I'd also written a book with a
Speaker 1: poet in it, in the book Divisidero, So I was like,
Speaker 1: had my poet as a kind of the understudy or
Speaker 1: something like that, And so it allowed me to kind
Speaker 1: of live aside another poet for a while, you know,
Speaker 1: in a novel.
Speaker 2: So did a year of last things? Did you sit
Speaker 2: and write it as a book or does it represent
Speaker 2: the years of fragments and poems that you have corralled
Speaker 2: together into a book.
Speaker 1: No, there were no fragments to depend on. But I
Speaker 1: think what happened was when I finished Warlight. And this
Speaker 1: tends to happen a lot with my books. If I
Speaker 1: finished a book like Warlight, where I felt I'd written
Speaker 1: as much as I knew about the novel, I realized
Speaker 1: I had to do something else, like it couldn't be
Speaker 1: another novel, you know, in the same way that when
Speaker 1: I finished another book of poems and I felt that
Speaker 1: was as far as I could go, then I had
Speaker 1: to try and write a novel, you know, and change forms.
Speaker 1: So I just felt I really wanted to change the language,
Speaker 1: to change my language, I think, and it allowed me
Speaker 1: to kind of really leap into something I hadn't done
Speaker 1: for a long time, so really for about four years.
Speaker 1: But the beginning of COVID.
Speaker 2: Is that the sequence for you generally, you know the
Speaker 2: mode or or the form that you want to work in,
Speaker 2: and then that takes you where it takes you. Or
Speaker 2: do you do you have a keronel of a story
Speaker 2: or an idea that then finds its form.
Speaker 1: I wish I had any of those, but I don't
Speaker 1: have those things. I didn't have any poems. I just
Speaker 1: decided I wanted to write poetry. I wanted to change
Speaker 1: my voice. You know. It's like another discovery of oneself.
Speaker 1: And I was very close to Wallight, but I just
Speaker 1: wanted to do something else. And so I've already spent
Speaker 1: about four years, three and a half years to four
Speaker 1: years trying to write a book of poems. I then
Speaker 1: began to write these. You know, I felt very new
Speaker 1: poems and very personal poems about me at this point
Speaker 1: in my life, as opposed to twenty years ago whenever
Speaker 1: it was. And so it wasn't that kind of archival
Speaker 1: book for me. I guess it's a rediscovery of myself,
Speaker 1: you know, in some kind of way. And I had
Speaker 1: characters like you know, the poet and one of the
Speaker 1: other books, and you know, a lot of happened for
Speaker 1: me in the last while, so I felt I could
Speaker 1: investigate all of that.
Speaker 2: You know, returning to a film like poetry, is it
Speaker 2: like an actor returning to a role. I mean, do
Speaker 2: you have certain things that you knew for yourself when
Speaker 2: you sat down to write that first poem for this
Speaker 2: book where you said, I know, this is where these
Speaker 2: are the muscles in my brain I need to exercise,
Speaker 2: or this is how open I need to be on
Speaker 2: the line, did it come back to you or was
Speaker 2: it learning it afresh?
Speaker 1: It was really learning everything again. I had no idea
Speaker 1: what the first line of poem was let alone. You
Speaker 1: know the last line, you know, and of course Abiquidy
Speaker 1: has that line. If you know what the end of
Speaker 1: the poem is, you make that the first line of
Speaker 1: the poem. So you're not traveling towards something you already know.
Speaker 1: And I think that's a very important remarking made for me,
Speaker 1: that you begin the poem not having a coup where
Speaker 1: you're going. So that was why it was a bit
Speaker 1: nerve wracking, I think as well. And I hadn't shown
Speaker 1: them any poems for anyone. I didn't really talk about
Speaker 1: the fact that I was writing poems, so it was
Speaker 1: this sort of secret sharer situation. But it was energizing,
Speaker 1: you know, in that sense.
Speaker 2: What's that relationship between not knowing where the poem's going,
Speaker 2: letting it, letting it be a process of discovery and
Speaker 2: writing poetry as so much of this book seems to
Speaker 2: me to be about memory, about revisiting things in the
Speaker 2: past and kind of excavating those and understanding them through poetry.
Speaker 1: Except you know, there's a lot of fiction in here
Speaker 1: as well. I don't think this is an archive of
Speaker 1: what happened to me for the last fifteen years at all.
Speaker 1: And there's a poem in their definition, you know, which
Speaker 1: begins with looking at a Sanskrit dictionary and then just
Speaker 1: wanders around all the possible fictions that are in a
Speaker 1: Sanskrit dictionary, which was very exciting. But coin washes about
Speaker 1: strange professions and so forth. Of a Sanskrit dictionary with
Speaker 1: its verbs for holy obsessions. The name for an alcove
Speaker 1: of coin washers whose fingers glint all night with dark
Speaker 1: lead grains of silver. Here, root vowels take an accent
Speaker 1: at high altitudes, the way dictionaries speak over mountains, a
Speaker 1: single word to portray light from that distant village reflected
Speaker 1: in a cloud, or your lover's face lit by the
Speaker 1: moonlight on a stage. That poem ends with a sort
Speaker 1: of heartbreaking love poem of loss. The ancient phrases give
Speaker 1: you the coin of escape, that epithet for those who
Speaker 1: return to broke and relationships repeatedly will row you away
Speaker 1: from confusion or remain only for remembrance. This is how
Speaker 1: deep I was lost, my darling. And it wasn't even
Speaker 1: the fact that while I was moving towards something that
Speaker 1: had happened to me, it was the only place I
Speaker 1: could exit the poem, you know, and there were two
Speaker 1: or three places where I could have goe somewhere else
Speaker 1: with the poem. And I think that kind of, you know,
Speaker 1: going back to Crearly, that was a kind of real
Speaker 1: excitement to find and guide the poem somewhere that I
Speaker 1: hadn't been before.
Speaker 2: Well. I was looking at my copy of The Cat's
Speaker 2: Table again last night and thinking about the way in
Speaker 2: which you use fiction and memoir, and then I was
Speaker 2: thinking about the way that you use poetry and fiction here,
Speaker 2: and it seemed to me that you seem to find
Speaker 2: stories in unlikely places.
Speaker 1: Yes, I mean, I think in some ways Cat's Table
Speaker 1: and this book are very similar. You know. It is
Speaker 1: like an autobiography of a life, and you know, the
Speaker 1: young boy getting on a ship and then by the
Speaker 1: end of the book he's you know, he's appearing on
Speaker 1: the BBC or something like that. Yeah, And I feel
Speaker 1: very close to that book still, And in fact, some
Speaker 1: of the characters in that book turned up here without
Speaker 1: the Barnabas and so forth. But it was like going
Speaker 1: back and saying, you know, but that book was about
Speaker 1: a ship, but this is you know, a different kind
Speaker 1: of more intimate loss or discovery, you know. So I
Speaker 1: think that was a pleasure to return to that place.
Speaker 1: I feel very close to that book, and I mean
Speaker 1: a friend of mine wrote to me after the book
Speaker 1: came out and he said, you know, I always loved
Speaker 1: Running the Family, and I always wondered why the hell
Speaker 1: you didn't write your sequel to that book, And here
Speaker 1: it is.
Speaker 2: I so the way you talk about that relationship between
Speaker 2: writing and discovery, that there is clearly a real joy
Speaker 2: in letting it unfold and not operating on a schematic,
Speaker 2: not operating on a kind of any preconceived idea, right.
Speaker 1: I think that's that's very essential. I mean, it's not
Speaker 1: something I am conscious of, but obviously this is something
Speaker 1: that I'm I will enter a novel, whether it's Wallight
Speaker 1: or something else. We have no idea where it's going,
Speaker 1: you know, and rather like the crearly poem thing, the
Speaker 1: excitement is the discovery of fiction much more than getting
Speaker 1: it right. You can always go back and rewrite the
Speaker 1: damn book, you know, the act of writing the first
Speaker 1: draft and then writing the seventh draft. Because I do
Speaker 1: a lot of drafts, it's really constantly exciting to me,
Speaker 1: you know, in removing something and or having to put
Speaker 1: something back in again. I began this book very naively
Speaker 1: and very instantly nakedly, I think, because I didn't know
Speaker 1: where I was going to go it. So it has
Speaker 1: a lot of rediscovery as I'm writing.
Speaker 2: When I return, Michael discusses the physicality of writing poetry
Speaker 2: and reveals his one real weakness, illegible handwriting. We'll be
Speaker 2: back in a minute. I can't resist kicking off the
Speaker 2: second half of this episode with another reading from Michael Londacci,
Speaker 2: firstly because there are few pleasures more acute than hearing
Speaker 2: a poet read their work, but secondly because this poem,
Speaker 2: Last Things, gives the collection its name and beautifully captures
Speaker 2: the note of elegy that runs through the book.
Speaker 1: Three Below Dante. I had been alone for weeks when
Speaker 1: we met There Below Dante, the three of us lounged
Speaker 1: in a poncion. I was writing a book about a
Speaker 1: dying man. Twenty years later, you were in a bed
Speaker 1: on Brunswick Avenue and I kissed your feet, Conny, one
Speaker 1: of my shy farewells. It was your year of Last Things,
Speaker 1: but you were luminous within those final fires earlier, alone
Speaker 1: in that city, I had dreamed the statue falling brutal
Speaker 1: from its noble height, and the poet crawling through plaster,
Speaker 1: so near to where we met in that piazza those
Speaker 1: years ago. Now we gather our days together, the countless meals,
Speaker 1: laughter and argument, four of us at vicious Canaster, those
Speaker 1: small and essential fence margueritas, the dancing, and once drunk
Speaker 1: in a car on some island or other, all those
Speaker 1: small recalls of this and that. Before I walk up
Speaker 1: a staircase into the dark.
Speaker 2: You mentioned before that when you were writing in this book,
Speaker 2: I think you were saying the poem definition was the
Speaker 2: one that you had in mind, that it became clear
Speaker 2: to you as you were writing it that this moment
Speaker 2: of grief and loss was the only way you could
Speaker 2: get out of the poem, that that was the natural
Speaker 2: culmination of the rest of kind of the work in there.
Speaker 2: Grief and loss play a huge part in this book.
Speaker 2: It is a book in no small way of those
Speaker 2: kind of themes and ideas, and in fact, in the
Speaker 2: poem that gives the collection its name. Last things, there's
Speaker 2: the beautiful line when you're reflecting and I kissed your feet, Connie.
Speaker 2: One of my shy farewells. And it's a beautiful line,
Speaker 2: but in particular, one of the things that struck me
Speaker 2: is that it's one of your shy farewells. You know,
Speaker 2: that these goodbyes are clearly, if not common, then at
Speaker 2: least lived again and again, right.
Speaker 1: Yeah, I mean in fact that that was a very
Speaker 1: close friendship that Linda and I had with Leon and
Speaker 1: Connie Rock and we've had known it for a long time,
Speaker 1: and then she died of cancer. So I mean, it
Speaker 1: was the kind of how do you It's more about
Speaker 1: the loss of that friendship within the four of us
Speaker 1: than anything else, and I just wanted to deal with that,
Speaker 1: But I also wanted to try and deal with it intimately,
Speaker 1: you know. And the only thing I think and the
Speaker 1: last time I saw her, I kissed her feet as
Speaker 1: a farewell. It's just very intimate in a way. I'm
Speaker 1: not quite sure how to say this, but there was
Speaker 1: a real need to celebrate that kind of friendship as
Speaker 1: well as a love story and something else.
Speaker 2: You know, also that idea that for the poet, memory
Speaker 2: and loss are tied up with that communion between writing
Speaker 2: and being read, That the showing of the leergy to
Speaker 2: someone is is the act of loving them and remembering them.
Speaker 2: If they're gone, then it's a kind of unclosed circle. Yeah.
Speaker 1: I didn't really think of all this as as an ellergy,
Speaker 1: but I mean, the element of energy is very central
Speaker 1: in this book. You know, even with someone you are
Speaker 1: still with, you know, it is a kind of a
Speaker 1: relief that when it's still with them, you know. And
Speaker 1: there were poems that were also fictional, because I think
Speaker 1: that there's one point that takes place in a in
Speaker 1: a muse and in fact it's not about any anybody
Speaker 1: I know, but it was just the idea that I
Speaker 1: was told to go to the Triassic period. I had
Speaker 1: to go downstairs, and you know, it's suddenly that became
Speaker 1: a plot. But it seems very personal and so forth.
Speaker 1: But in an odd way, the landscape suggests a possibility.
Speaker 2: One of the great joys of this book is about
Speaker 2: the role of language itself. I mean, you mentioned the
Speaker 2: exploration of the Sanskrit dictionary before, but even in a
Speaker 2: poem like Estuaries, where it's about language refusing to meet
Speaker 2: a reader, the poems, the form of poetry, the kind
Speaker 2: of interplay of language is as much a theme of
Speaker 2: this book as it is a feature.
Speaker 1: Yeah. The thing about poetry, especially after you we spent
Speaker 1: about fifteen years on novels, is it allows you that
Speaker 1: kind of quiet intricacy. You know that that can occur
Speaker 1: in describing a very simple moment that you're not concerned
Speaker 1: with plot or the advance of the story or the
Speaker 1: introduction and the character. It's very difficult to say, but
Speaker 1: I mean the pleasure of doing this book for me
Speaker 1: was I felt very intimate in the act of writing.
Speaker 1: And we are writing a novel, who are dealing with
Speaker 1: you know, Act one should end pretty soon, or this
Speaker 1: character had to go to Asia at some point, you know.
Speaker 1: And I mean the novel allows you all kinds of
Speaker 1: little sideways and to side turns and so forth, but
Speaker 1: the poem can slow it down to just down to
Speaker 1: about three words, and that that is actually kind of wonderful.
Speaker 2: You know. Given the ways in which characters recur or
Speaker 2: stories circle back in on themselves, do you return to
Speaker 2: earlier poems, earlier novels, or do you finish them and
Speaker 2: move on because you've already been surprised by that book.
Speaker 1: I do move on from having written that sona or personality,
Speaker 1: but I always continue to change that, you know, I
Speaker 1: really do a lot of drafts and I then try
Speaker 1: it on three or four people and I get the
Speaker 1: sense of it. I mean, I trust editors. I don't
Speaker 1: always agree with them, but I do trust them, and
Speaker 1: they will say, well, there's too much of this, and
Speaker 1: you modify or you clarify. The act of writing is
Speaker 1: such a pleasure. You know, it's exhausting, but you know
Speaker 1: you are really kind of inventing a story which you
Speaker 1: didn't have. I have no idea what the plot is.
Speaker 1: And that happens a lot in these books in the
Speaker 1: way that in the poem, Okay, I've got written four
Speaker 1: lines in this poem, and where's it going to go
Speaker 1: from here? And that sense of surprise and discovery in
Speaker 1: the poem is really a surprise and discovery of yourself,
Speaker 1: as opposed to you're not kind of putting on a
Speaker 1: play a scene, who are really kind of intricately trying
Speaker 1: to know something about what you're trying to do right now.
Speaker 2: Has that changed as you've gotten older as a writer,
Speaker 2: or has that been a kind of constant.
Speaker 1: It's been a constant. I mean, I think what's interesting
Speaker 1: to me was that the structure of the book became
Speaker 1: something very very important later on. That is, I'd written, say,
Speaker 1: but forty or fifty poems that made up the book,
Speaker 1: but not in that order, so I had to do
Speaker 1: something else. So the chronology is not a pattern. The
Speaker 1: chronology has to be altered so that you can reveal
Speaker 1: more so that, for instance, in this book, and it
Speaker 1: was something I discovered that I've listed all the titles
Speaker 1: on little index cards on a table. There's a lock
Speaker 1: poem the first poem, and there's a lock poem near
Speaker 1: the end, and then there was a lock form somewhere
Speaker 1: in the middle. And I had no awareness of even
Speaker 1: the repetition of talking about locks, but suddenly, by placing
Speaker 1: them there, it became adding you know, Act one, Act
Speaker 1: two three, you know, having that kind of effect of
Speaker 1: by going back that was the pattern kind of helped
Speaker 1: I think the reader as well.
Speaker 2: As me, and and that kind of sense of surprise
Speaker 2: that comes from the unlikely juxtaposition or the wilfully jarring transition,
Speaker 2: or the kind of elegant parallels. I mean, if I
Speaker 2: think right back to your first book, coming through Slaughter,
Speaker 2: the ways in which you have written about music in
Speaker 2: general and jazz in particular, about that relationship between things,
Speaker 2: and that relationship between structure and play. Structure and play
Speaker 2: have a very intimate relationship in poetry. It seems to.
Speaker 1: Me absolutely, you know, it's just repetation of one word
Speaker 1: will alter everything, you know, And that's real pleasure. I
Speaker 1: mean of writing that you can kind of you're like
Speaker 1: a mad scientist, you know, with a load of game,
Speaker 1: and no one can come in the door until you've
Speaker 1: got that balance or something. You know, and writing a
Speaker 1: poem is very physical for me. The voice, that tone,
Speaker 1: the loudness of a word as a huge effect.
Speaker 2: Do you read it out loud as you write? Do
Speaker 2: you pace the room or is it? Is it all
Speaker 2: an interior thing.
Speaker 1: It's very interior. I mean, I don't have to say
Speaker 1: it out loud. But there was a time when I was,
Speaker 1: especially if it's a novel, because no one could beat
Speaker 1: my handwriting, and I'm a very slow typist. I would
Speaker 1: have to read the whole novel onto a tape recorder
Speaker 1: and someone would type it out. But even in that
Speaker 1: last act of fixing things, I was changing things around.
Speaker 2: Your handwriting is so bad that you have to record
Speaker 2: it into a type that people can transcribe it. Yes,
Speaker 2: I love that that's wilfully obscure. The magic of the
Speaker 2: kind of the words that you create, the idea that
Speaker 2: on the page they're in a form that only you
Speaker 2: can see seems kind of nice, I know.
Speaker 1: And the handwriting is genuinely bad, so but you know
Speaker 1: that it gives me a last chance. You know, it's
Speaker 1: like a dress rehearsal, so you can, oh, we can
Speaker 1: know there's too much of that going on here and
Speaker 1: take it out.
Speaker 2: That makes a lot of sense. I just wanted to
Speaker 2: return to a year of last things and that idea
Speaker 2: of it being nerve wracking. And I'm curious about when
Speaker 2: you know a book is done, when you feel that
Speaker 2: sense of kind of confidence that you've achieved the things
Speaker 2: that you wanted to achieve with it, and you can
Speaker 2: put it aside and stop wiring.
Speaker 1: I didn't stop worrying about this book until quite recently.
Speaker 1: I mean, I've written love poems before, I've written you know,
Speaker 1: other books that have that kind of closeness between people.
Speaker 1: But it was just more so I think, I don't
Speaker 1: know what it was, but it wasn't so much about
Speaker 1: the intimacy, but how you write about intimacy, you know,
Speaker 1: and there was a lot of that intimacy there in
Speaker 1: the book.
Speaker 2: So in the interests of not kind of repeating yourself,
Speaker 2: in the interests of kind of being pushed to somewhere new,
Speaker 2: can we take that off the back of the Year
Speaker 2: of Last Things? It has to be a novel next
Speaker 2: you're you're there kind of beavering away already.
Speaker 1: No, I'm not beavering on a novel. Yeah, I think
Speaker 1: I want to wait a while, you know, I mean, yeah,
Speaker 1: who knows if there's a novel anyway? I mean usually
Speaker 1: I don't know if that there's a novel in me
Speaker 1: until I started writing the novel, you know, And then god,
Speaker 1: we'll just go somewhere on crash, you know, land on
Speaker 1: the second chapter, you know. So that's that's always a problem,
Speaker 1: whether it'll involve or not. And then there's a handwriting too.
Speaker 2: Well, you know, that's going to make it harder for everyone.
Speaker 2: I for what, I'm extremely glad that you returned to
Speaker 2: poetry with the latest book. It's such a delight to
Speaker 2: read it and such a delight.
Speaker 1: To talk to you today, you too, Thank you for that.
Speaker 2: Michael and Ducci's latest book, A Year of Last Things,
Speaker 2: is available now and if you want to hear him
Speaker 2: read those gorgeous poems. I highly recommend.
Speaker 1: The audiobook.
Speaker 2: Before we go a further reading recommendation, and I thought
Speaker 2: i'd make a steer it to another poet whose work
Speaker 2: Michael and I discussed that didn't make the final cut
Speaker 2: of the episode. Former US poet Laurier W. S. Merman
Speaker 2: is someone both Michael and I enthused about. He wrote
Speaker 2: about the natural world and his Buddhist faith, about memory
Speaker 2: and tenderness and loss. I thought about him frequently reading
Speaker 2: A Year of Last Things, and in particular his Sama
Speaker 2: of love. In his one line poem Elegy, it read simply,
Speaker 2: who would I show it? To? The idea that love
Speaker 2: resides in the act of sharing. Something to be read
Speaker 2: is one iodore. You can find the works of W. S.
Speaker 2: Mewen and MIKEAE Longdaci are your favorite independent bookstore. That's
Speaker 2: it for this week's show. If you enjoyed it, please
Speaker 2: tell your friends and rate and review us. It helps
Speaker 2: a lot read. This is produced and edited by Clara Ames,
Speaker 2: mixing and original compositions by Zolton Fetcher. Thanks for listening.
Speaker 2: See you next week.