![]() ![]() By now this book functions as my own madeleine, with different passages triggering memories from widely scattered places and periods in my life. Some of it I read in New York, some in Madrid, Lisbon, Vienna. I read these books sitting, standing, lying down, in cars and on trains, waiting in airports, on commutes to work, relaxing on vacation. I struggled with Proust, on and off, for three years. The writer’s work is merely a kind of optical instrument which he offers the reader to enable him to discern what, without this book, he would perhaps never have perceived in himself. In reality, every reader is, while he is reading, the reader of his own self. ![]() In the Heat: Elche… on Alicante & the Island of…Ģ023: New Year… on In the Heat: Elche & … Jaca: A Slightly Uns… on A Highly Unsuccessful Jou… Reflections on Readi… on Ancient Cities: Istanbul ![]()
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