Kira and I have moved to a new apartment, and this entails, among many other things, a reorganization of books. As I was about this task today, I was suddenly pleased to note that, among the many volumes of fiction we own, Vladimir Nabokov sits dangerously close to A.A. Milne on our fiction shelf.
There are pleasures, and then there are pleasures. This morning, with that, the universe provided the latter. Thank you.
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3 comments:
Yes, but who endangers whom, in this closeness?
Welcome home.
Dault, my friend...Benjamin wrote a really good essay on moving and the way in which books jostled up against one another that perhaps wouldn't otherwise, or perhaps shouldn't (I can't recall where -- you may know it)...but what you might not know is a really good essay on Benjamin's essay by Homi K. Bhabha...I can't remember the title -- I'll look it up and shoot it your way.
Progress report? How are you and Kira...please email or call (I still have that 815 number if you have it). Peace and love.
I have no insight on this particular juxtaposition of genres-- but feel driven by nostalgia to report that reading _Bend Sinister_ made up a large part of a highly enjoyable week of my life, delving into it in a cafe every morning and not having to be anywhere else, going home afterwards and making good use of the dictionary and new vocab I'd learned. For this and many other reasons and occasions, I still (heart) Vladimir.
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