Beauty and the Inferno [antikvár]

PREFACE The Dangers of Reading THE ACT OF WRITING HAS ALLOWED ME TO EXIST. ARTICLES, reports, stories, editorials - it's a line of work that has always been more than just a job for me. It has merged with my life. If anyone hoped that living under extreme circumstances would lead me to hide my words away, they were wrong. 1 haven't hid them and 1 haven't lost them. Every day has been a struggle, it's true. A silent one-on-one combat. A kind of shadow boxing. Writing was the only thing 1 needed to survive. My words stopped me from losing myself. From giving up. From despair. Over the past few years 1 have written from at least ten different apartments, none of which 1 inhabited for more than a few months. Most of them were small, some were miniscule, and all of them were infernally dark. 1 always wanted them to be brighter or more spacious, to have a terrace, or at least a balcony. 1 wanted a balcony in the same way that 1 used to want to travel: