About once a week I reach this point where my mind goes into "broken record" mode. Tonight I was reading Nabokov's Speak, Memory and found myself rereading this line
"Along this vibrant string a melodious gene—"
for FIVE minutes.
The perfect antidote: "Beautiful Thing," a "heart-warming" British comedy with a smashing 60s soundtrack. Good night, brain!
Except tonight this VHS rental is conspiring with Nabokov's restless, unfinished sentence. The first two trailers are for movies about writers, "Lorca" and "The Whole Wide World" ("the true story of a story of true love"). So now I'm here, with a perfectly decent movie on pause, wondering which poem Andy García was reciting at the beginning of the trailer and floored by the realization that Conan the Barbarian was first a novel! Good god, when will this stop?!
"—that missed me glides through my father from the sixteenth-century organist Wolfgang Graun to my son."
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