Thursday, March 21, 2013
Begs re-reading, like any good poem, since I had that rushed feeling reading it (like poetry) that only halfway through was I truly begin to understand it narratively, and so need to go back and revisit both the heightened language, the emotional tone, and the plot of it all.
Singular. Nabokov crossed with John O'Hare. France seems an infinitely enchanted and endless place.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Missed nothing. A terrifically slight book, I thought. Read it in about two hours, felt almost nothing.