In this week's twilight I read The Seamstress and the Wind, which I have had for some years, but didn't register the first time, the wrong time, evidently. This time it was like a nursery slope out of the last César Aira, a desire not to quit yet, with so much en mouvement, so much to play for, I noticed more, I'm sure, the colours, the flying wedding dress, the mummified armadillo/nouveau truck.
This evening I read the first few chapters again as the stove got going after a good day in the garden, stay long enough to see the story encouraged into life in a Paris café. I see him off down the road, Hail César, and the seamstress, the wind, the truck, the taxi, the wedding dress, the Monster.
The visceral Signor Aira
Mozart String Quintets
April outside in the early evening
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