Oheory is, we make our destinies like blind men chug paint at a wall; we never uand nor evehe marks we leave behind us. But not too much of the grandly actal abstract expressionist about my life, I trust; oh, no. I always try to live on the best possible terms with my unscious a my right hand know what my left is doing and, fresh every m, scrutinise my dreams. Abandon, therefore, or rather, destruct the blind-a painter metaphor; take it apart, formalise it, put it back together again, strive for something a touch more hard-edged, iional, altogether less arty, for I do believe we all have the right to choose.
In patchwork, a ed household art ed, obviously, because my sex excelled in it -- well, there you are; thats the way its been, isnt it? Not that I have anything against fi, mind; heless, it took a hundred years for fiists to catch up with the kind of brilliant abstra that any ordinary housewife used to be able to put together in only a year, five yea……（内容加载失败！）
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