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I'm Telling the Truth, but I'm Lying: Essays

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Bassey Ikpi

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“Many ways she tried, of escape. She became an assiduous church-goer. But the language meant nothing to her: it seemed false. She hated to hear things expressed, put into words. Whilst the religious feelings were inside her they were passionately moving. In the mouth of the clergyman, they were false, indecent. She tried to read. But again the tedium and the sense of falsity of the spoken word put her off. She went to stay with girl friends. At first she thought it splendid. But then the inner boredom came on, it seemed to her all nothingness. And she felt always belittled, as if never, never could she stretch her length and stride her stride.”

“Maybe this restlessness is serving to keep some part of me alive. Or maybe I move to avoid making - making words, friends, and love. I do spread my heart thinly as I go. Will I ever accept that the most mythic, meaningful life might lie in the ordinary? The kingdom of details and daily reprises. For now, I’m stunned by all things static. Scared by the idea that a home might exist for me somewhere.”