I learned all about Pritikin from David Aaronovitch in the Guardian, a few weeks back.
In some biazzre real-world link-fest, this article led me to William Leith's book, The Hungry Years, which I devoured like a person who hadn't seen sustenance for a while.
There's a part of me that thinks I love the intimacy of this kind of writing: I don't know David/William/whoever, but I know how much they weigh and their innermost fears. But then there's a part of me that says "pull yourself together, don't tell me your crap."
I'm both, I guess. I'm an emotional voyeur, but with boundaries.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment