I’m seated on the toilet in the bathroom at my house in Siberia With a View, plaid PJ pants at my ankles, book in hand.
I’m re-reading one of Nabokov’s lectures on literature, the piece on Ulysses, thrilled that I still remember Boody, Dilly, Katey, and Maggy. I regret I’ve not known a woman named “Dilly.”
I’m reminded of Nabokov’s theory about the identity of the man in the brown Mackintosh.
He’s probably right. If anyone knows what Joyce is up to, it’s Vlad.
Joyce spent 15 years in Trieste, so I think about Italy. Continue reading