No place in this country has ever fitted itself more perfectly to the geography
of my imagination than Kentucky. Here, wind-in-the-willows nights radiate mind
and body with an overwhelming sense of homesickness, with
“Initially,” Vladimir Nabokov writes in his autobiography Speak, Memory, “I was
unaware that time, so boundless at first blush, was a prison.” Human
consciousness seeks the infinite in the finite. It inevitably falls
“And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music
through all his mad adventures . . .” — G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was
Thursday
She hangs solemnly above the emerald
The Scottish man of letters, C.K. Scott Moncrieff, is mostly known for
introducing Marcel Proust’s multi-volume novel, In Search of Lost Time, to the
English-speaking world. His translation is still thought
“Otherwise it was black darkness; one breathed darkness.”—D.H. Lawrence, The
Rainbow
When it comes to literary tastes, we’d all do well not to take the opinions of
writers we already
