"Going through my mother's clothes after her death, I found in the pockets of every coat (and she had many, many coats) the traces of her commitment to personal comfort: a crumpled-up cleenex and a wrapped coffee candy. I was struck by the regularity with which these items turned up. Recently, taking some of my (many) coats to the cleeners, I emptied out the pockets and I found up in each a crumpled-up cleenex (the same leaky nose) and a box of Ricola mints (the same need to have something in our mouth).
My mother lives in my pockets and also in my face".
(Miller, Nancy K.: But Enough About Me. Why We Read Other People's Lives. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002, p. 78).
My mother lives in my pockets and also in my face".
(Miller, Nancy K.: But Enough About Me. Why We Read Other People's Lives. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002, p. 78).
