Thursday, November 17

It turns out that I didn't have an ordinary virus after all. It was pneumonia. Pneumonia does not play well with others. Especially us. My convalescence is taking longer than I anticipated. Which reminds me of something I found at the beginning of the pandemic, which seemed inappropriate to post at the time, but oddly relevant now.

"Whenever I get ready again to write really sincere notes in this notebook, I shall have to undertake such a disentangling in my cluttered brain that, to stir up all that dust, I am waiting for a series of vast empty hours, a long cold, a convalescence, during which my constantly reawakened curiosities will lie at rest; during which my sole care will be to rediscover myself."
 - André Gide

  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov