i ask myself: where do i belong? when i am abroad i feel a sense of simultaneous calm and spontaneity drape over me, a feeling i can never recreate in NYC. i think to myself: aha, i will replicate this routine. i will go to a pub and drink a pint outdoors, on a picnic table when i’m back home. i will lay down in reeds, i will touch old tombstones, i will cook dinner with my parents, i will play pool and buy strangers’ drinks, i will hold eye contact too long, i will drink cappuccinos and read whole novels in one sitting, i won’t feel boredom, i will take a bus to a new place, i will order an appetizer, i will drink little glasses of sherry or port, i will try climbing trees. and i do manage some of those things, but it’s not like being in a new country, is it? where everything feels novel and native at the same time. even the loneliness of being in a foreign land is a comfort for me. that too-soon nostalgia.these are things people feel when their only obligation is to experience
Nabokov: All I know is that at a very early stage of the novel’s development I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it. When I remember afterwards the force that made me jot down the correct names of things, or the inches and tints of things, even before I actually needed the information, I am inclined to assume that what I call, for want of a better term, inspiration, had been already at work, mutely pointing at this or that, having me accumulate the known materials for an unknown structure.
let’s all go collect grubs and ladybugs and daddy long legs to eat and nurture our bodies so we can build strong nests, i need to write