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When I wrote Roman Roman, The ones we loved (From 6. Mayan from the park line / Harper Collins), I spent a lot of time helping each character to choose his house and choose what furniture to get inside. These spaces would mirror the state of rest and unrest, so they had to be famous and rolled over. Shaping them showed that home design is much more than picking the right colors for walls and placing plants in real corners for the best light – it is an act of self-creation.
My novel is a love story and it is also related to the links we nurture with people living in the neighborhood. Since we noticed each other, we decide to take care of each other. It is a binding nor shared by residents The ones we loved. Some of their homes were built with the help of neighbors who helped and digging the foundations and lay bricks; Others made new arrivals who preferred to work only on their projects; A few inherited from older relatives built by hope that these houses will always be filled with a relative. What made them out to visit the refuge, return and running from – it was different for each. For a widow and her daughter, a certain chair made his home also blessed and ordinary because of the way he was delivered to their door after prayer; The elderly couple shared their home with the evergreen Mulberry Staff, which overshadowed its greatest love; And one boy stopped carefully and knocked the rugs that lined the floors who approached his two closest friends.
During the four years I was wandering in my life, helping them move the furniture and cleaning weeds in their courtyards, I started thinking about homes and what they told me about the tensions that define what it means to follow a particular place. I was thinking of a young woman in Noor Nagi If an Egyptian cannot speak English, Whose Cairo Sitting of the Cairo Seventh floor came with four balconies from where “canopy trees of infected bats” could be seen. I believe you can never have too many balconies, because someone sees bats primarily like rodents with wings, the idea of infecting trees so awful, it makes me not want to never go outside. However, from her apartment, the nagging character asks the landing and makes the routine listen to Vriek as the sun begins to set up. Far from this nightmar Symphony, I was drawn into a love relationship with random enthusiasm, which rested on their shelves, “which, when they opened, pressed in their hearts,” Furniture set “and hidden orchids” and hidden orchids “.” Domestic fragrances and fabrics have transferred so much life lifestyles that will read it, it was hard to imagine her ever leaving so softly known. And yet she is. And I was wondering what she took with the reminder and what she left behind.
In the literature, home is a place that prone and discovers, and now that I finished the novel, I wonder what every home in the book can also say about the writer.
Sometimes I wanted my own home, New York City apartment, was an object that I could easily reach, something I could bend and carry with me. In the same way that I collect my furious base in the palm of my suitcase, I wanted to do the same with my home basic things, when it hit with yellow sunlight and turned into sunlight and turned to grief and turned for sorrow; Low, circular table covered with green and white square tiles that feel smooth when I brush my fingers and become a San ASMR when I brush my ridges with my nails; My whole kitchen because it knows my mess; My housing door with an old fashioned lock and a bluish patina. I made this place my not just because it is my address and pay for utilities, but because I have a lot of objects that dive me during the trip set to different points and shelves. It’s like gifts from friends (sweet personalized ceramics and knitted stem mat) and my collections of teasing, together with Oliver Mtukudzi Vinils from my capital Layer Home: Zimbabwe. Although the structure of the apartment is approaching me, it remembers me here and remind me of everywhere I was and the places I left. This little jewel in Harlem is my constant place for my way in the road.
In the literature, home is a place that prone and discovers, and now that I finished the novel, I wonder what every home in the book can also say about the writer. Do authors construct their own specific visions of the house through the signs we create, those we will inevitably leave after the book? I moved several times in my life, through continents and borders, and it’s probably why home that I’ve always wanted to pack with little trouble. But is that the only reason? In The ones we loved, Although the characters lived and proven maintained, the love of the structures they built was a bit indecisive. It was as if they had completely hard their homes as their own, their bodies would fasten to their walls and cannot be broken if the weather called to depart. Everyone is ready to go, even when they were somewhere for decades. Is that latent desire to look further about your interior or mine?
In Morrison’s work, home, whether the building, earth or person, often able to transform even after a seemingly insurmountable destruction. We can renew and that is the coolest part.
It seems that many of the life of the writers separate between their private interiors and their literary. F. Scott Fitzgerald stands as a curious example. In Big gatsby, Novel’s names have a magnificent home that is exaggerated in her wealth and his absence of warmth. It’s so big that it needs to be filled, so it’s so big it will always feel empty. Fitzgerald became rich only to adult as his career has expandedAnd since his work is obvious that he found a rich fascinating and poor. After joining his ranks, it must have been difficult to perceive himself as equal parts of Jai Gatsby and Nick Carvai, chasing decades and seeking a certain modesty. In his debut Roman, This page of Raja, He noticed the rituals of young young Jazz Age and their desires to differ from parents though they still enjoy similar comfort and freedoms. In thinking about the house, says the character, “with people like our home is a place where we are not.” Fitzgerald seemed to suggest that home is not a place, but constant longing, something that was connected to nostalgia and distance.
In Tony Morrison Loved, The sweet home is the name of the plantation in which the main characters used to enslave, and the location was witnessed by their horrors and places where they also shared laughter, remembered meals and lifelong friendship. How does sweetness exist in addition to perverted brutality that enslaved? On Christmas day 1993. years, Morrison is an upstat new york home burntGiven that the only things that remained a little intact that its manuscripts and works are located in the “Special Study” house in the house. The New York Times It reports that the author is “upset about the loss of the house, but it easily made her papers recovered.” There is strange sweetness in that relief where someone complains the lost home and also celebrates recovered treasure. In Morrison’s work, home, whether the building, earth or person, often able to transform even after a seemingly insurmountable destruction. We can renew and that is the coolest part.
Till the end If the Egyptian cannot speak English, Dripping of trees infected with mice becomes a deadly event witness, and geography preserves memory of the city and young woman. In The ones we loved, Mango wood and Guava wood frame the choices of characters in connection with new beginnings and secrecy. In all places I lived, Flora in the city is what you remember and hold me there. It extracts me close when I’m far – this constant renewal of life and the nature of belonging in places that will always leave behind. Sometimes this quiet promise can fail when trees and flowers used to make your daily walks replace parking lots and multiple buildings, making it almost impossible to make presence in the places you love. I slowly realized that my body was only a constant home, a place I would always enter in no matter what border I crossed and what I gathered on the road. I saw my book in writing and I saw my liking for themselves and holding your body firmly, recognizing that belonging to something that was felt when they came to rest, when they decided to rest.
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