He looks about the room at the few sticks of furniture, at the dirty bed sheets and the wash basin with the dirty water still in it, and he says: "I am a slave!" Every day he says it, not once, but a dozen times. And then he takes his guitar from the wall and sings.

Christmas dinner? At Susan’s?” I nodded. “We could call it a Kwanzaa dinner, if that would improve your mood.

Each man is forever thrown back on himself alone, and there is danger that he may be shut up in the solitude of his own heart.

I love my parents in the way most children would: for having been there at every point in my youth and childhood, ready to pick me up when I fell and support me when I stumbled.

Written By Michael Gove

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