–and it seemed to him that happiness itself had that smell, the smell of dead leaves. — , from “The Return of Chorb,” The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)
Time does not stand still; it is writing itself into the leaves how fatal life can be. Fog is burning. The fields are evolving as light arrives in a slow assured way. Like a passing rain, light arrives! And it is not any more beautiful one day than another; it just seems that way, narrowing… Continue reading Martin Willitts Jr.