By Sting

Having been a songwriter such a lot of my existence, condensing my principles and feelings into brief rhyming couplets and environment them to tune, I had by no means fairly thought of writing a publication. yet upon arriving on the reflective age of 50, i discovered myself drawn, for the 1st time, to jot down lengthy passages that have been as stimulating and fascinating to me as any songwriting I had ever performed. And so damaged track started to take form. it's a publication in regards to the early a part of my existence, from adolescence via early life, correct as much as the eve of my good fortune with the Police. it's a tale only a few humans recognize. I had no real interest in writing a standard autobiographical recitation of every thing that’s ever occurred to me. as a substitute i discovered myself interested in exploring particular moments, sure humans and relationships, and specific occasions which nonetheless resonate powerfully for me as i attempt to comprehend the kid i used to be, and the guy I grew to become.

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Extra resources for Broken Music: A Memoir

Sample text

I have a key and let myself in, careful not to spill the precious tea. I knock gently on her bedroom door with my free hand, and enter the dark room where there is a strange smell that I can't identify. I suppose it is the smell of sickness. She thanks me and briefly holds my hand. Weeks pass and Auntie Amy will be the first person I know in my life who will die. My mother cries all day and I can't console her. "So this is death," I say to myself, and I begin to have catastrophic fantasies, obsessing about my parents dying or that a war will suddenly break out and I will be left alone, but I do not share these thoughts with anyone else.

But I'm always dreaming, and the landscape will remain resolutely gray, mitigated only by the muted plumage of those eking out a life among the bricks and stones. There are two shops farther down from Auntie Amy's, a china shop that no one ever seems to frequent and then Trotters, the barbers, where my dad and I get our hair cut. We each get a "short back and sides," and because I am small, I have to sit on a plank across the arms of the barber's chair. I love the prickly chill as I run my fingers over the short hairs at the back of my newly shorn head.

And with that Tommy leaps from the chair and bolts across the room. He is now framed cinematically in the kitchen doorway, and slowly turns toward me. " I sheepishly begin to follow him, trying to make myself invisible. "Er, good-bye, Mrs. " "Good-bye, son," she says resignedly, and then screeches at Tommy's retreating back, "And you'd better be back before it's dark or your da'll take the belt to you. " But Tommy is out the door, and so am I. If he notices the new bike, he says nothing; there seems to be an instant and tacit understanding between us that he won't mention the new bike and I won't mention the redness of his eyes.

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