Reading The Emigrants

Funny how with someone like Sebald you feel urged to keep trying because of the people who’ve done it before you and found it worth the trouble. I think I grew up with the sense that there was almost some kind of cultural conspiracy that forced us to read people we didn’t want to read, or that it was some foucauldian power arrangement that made it impossible to be considered part of the elite if you didn’t go through these initiations. Now I think it’s more benign and humane, in this case anyway–this work meant something to me, changed the way the world looked for me, and I commend it to you with the hope that it do the same for you.

Empty Nest

M’lou emerging from the duck house this morning with one of two eggs. It was 1 fahrenheit at 8:30 this morning. Those eggs were stone cold.

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