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BooksActually is an independent bookstore located in Singapore. We specialise in Fiction and Literature (including obscure and critical works).

In our bookstore, you can often find literary trinkets in the form of stationery and other lovely tchotchkes.

We publish and distribute books under our imprint Math Paper Press. We also hand-stitch notebooks and produce stationery under Birds & Co.

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24 August 2012
12:41 pm
6 notes
// BOOKSACTUALLY RECOMMENDS //The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy “He wrote me all about it. They ran into each other his very first day in Florence and he knew at once that he’d loved her all the time. ‘… She doesn’t know about us - about you and me - and I didn’t think I ought to mention it.’ Mention it! That killed me. I’m no more to him than that - a mention. What the hell is the matter with me anyway? Why have I written that monstrously awful letter begging him not to go through with it, swearing black and blur I’ve never loved anyone but him, that I only came down here in the first place to test us? I mean - lies. Nothing but lies. And yet I know I wouldn’t get that letter out of the mailbox even if I could. Nor will I write him another canceling the first. My grief is too real, and my tears, and my pain. Someone quite independent of myself has taken control; I can only obey. It’s no good saying over and over again, ‘But you didn’t want him… you didn’t want him…’ It’s worse than no good. I mean it makes the whole thing worse, because now I do want him. I can see him so clearly. Yesterday I might have said I’ve forgotten what he looks like; today I’m cursed with total recall. His light-blue eyes filled with tenderness and his mouth curled into a quiet smile; how many times have I looked up from his pillow to find him gazing down at me in that certain way? The hardest thing to accept is that I could have been so wrong about him, that I could have guessed so wrong.”

// BOOKSACTUALLY RECOMMENDS //

The Dud Avocado

by Elaine Dundy


“He wrote me all about it. They ran into each other his very first day in Florence and he knew at once that he’d loved her all the time. ‘… She doesn’t know about us - about you and me - and I didn’t think I ought to mention it.’ Mention it! That killed me. I’m no more to him than that - a mention.

What the hell is the matter with me anyway? Why have I written that monstrously awful letter begging him not to go through with it, swearing black and blur I’ve never loved anyone but him, that I only came down here in the first place to test us?

I mean - lies. Nothing but lies.

And yet I know I wouldn’t get that letter out of the mailbox even if I could. Nor will I write him another canceling the first. My grief is too real, and my tears, and my pain. Someone quite independent of myself has taken control; I can only obey. It’s no good saying over and over again, ‘But you didn’t want him… you didn’t want him…’ It’s worse than no good. I mean it makes the whole thing worse, because now I do want him.

I can see him so clearly. Yesterday I might have said I’ve forgotten what he looks like; today I’m cursed with total recall. His light-blue eyes filled with tenderness and his mouth curled into a quiet smile; how many times have I looked up from his pillow to find him gazing down at me in that certain way?

The hardest thing to accept is that I could have been so wrong about him, that I could have guessed so wrong.”

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