What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that.
These agapetae, as the above quote shows, were widely criticized; for, in an attitude which most of you reading this can doubtless relate to, there was much suspicion that such close relationships were little more than fronts for sexual promiscuity.
He leaned down to inspect a white-quilled cactus, and then spotted a different kind with skinnier branches and only a few drab spines.
If the genre of autobiographic or memoiric writing is beset by a certain obsession with veracity, subjects of Refugee and Forced Migration experience know too well a further heightened and acute high-stakes game of authentication.
