after my own heart

‘Why can’t people ever record the good things, the everyday things? If there were ordinary accounts of the camps people would understand how we couldn’t always weep, how we came up out of the mines into the wash-house, singing. You’re a writer, so why don’t you write that? How we smiled a little, danced and sang a little. Because people must live in hope…’

an eighty-seven year-old woman talking to Colin Thubron in Vorkuta, Siberia.

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