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The concerns around white veganism and its blindness (and worse) to other systems of domination and oppression are completely legitimate and deserve serious attention. But they do not fundamentally undermine the central ethical arguments of veganism.
The American writer H. L. Mencken said the aim of politics is 'to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary'. Over the years there have been many hobgoblins of varying sizes and shapes, and this election campaign promsies to be no different.
Most recently, my younger daughter declared herself a vegan. She wanted to reduce her impact on the environment, to withdraw her implicit support for a brutal farming industry that had long disturbed her, and for a society that fritters fossil fuels and fills our oceans with plastic. And so our kitchen has undergone yet another revolution.
To devote the same day to reflection on both Down syndrome and on poetry, though probably unintended, was a very human thing to do. Precisely because one is so commonly regarded as a defect and the other as an idle activity, we need to be reminded that both are a gift.
A child approaches the casket, reaches within to try to lift my folded hands, to make sure, as she tells her mother later, that I am not just sleeping.
Maybe I'm just a bleeding-heart lefty, but I hope that most people would answer this question with a 'no'. Unfortunately, if you read the comment section of any news story on the recent spate of drug-related deaths at music festivals you will find a mixed response.
The world leaders who rushed to condemn the Valentine's Day attack have long remained silent on state-sanctioned oppression in Kashmir. That's no longer a surprise; nor is the fact that the attack was covered by every major western media organisation, while the daily injustices perpetrated against ordinary Kashmiris go unreported.
Instead of seeking to understand how victims internalise, process and describe their experience (factors which are comprehensively explained in an open letter to Bolt by Clare Linane, wife of abuse survivor Peter Blenkiron), critics have instead used the victim's reported memory of events to prove that they couldn't possibly have happened.
Any tourist to this spot presumably stands in awe under the character, having crossed the full delineation of Chinese territory, and then gazes out over the Heilongjiang to Russia on the other side. North: them. Here: us. Cue national pride.
I pull the blanket over my head and will sleep to return. If it won't, I'll seek comfort in my blanket-cocoon. The world can't find me here. But I hear the bedroom door handle release and the smell of coffee slips through. 'Wakey, Wakey,' he announces to the twisted blankets as he comes to a standstill by the bed.
Racing along the Shenyang-Hainan Island Freeway alone. Going across the Hangzhou Bay alone. Playing amidst the Zhoushan Archipelago alone. Staying in a mountain village alone. Occupying a presidential suite alone. Using eight dinner sets alone. Drinking three hundred glasses alone.
It's all very well to remove excess furniture, but furniture is not books. How many chairs does one need? Chairs are not books. To reduce a library as a household expedience is to objectify the books. Their contents are emptied of value, their history relegated to out-of-date. They have no more meaning than books in an Ikea display room.
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