In which I read Little Nemo in Slumberland, a comic strip from the early 1900s, and it gives me nightmares.
In which I describe, in words and photographs, the common weeds around my home.
In which I devise a contest for the readers of this weblog: identify the books from which I’ve drawn these opening lines.
In which reading Proust causes me to meditate on the things for which I have no names.
In which I continue to recover from knee surgery. In which I begin to read Proust.
In which I remember the end of my father’s life.