I’m a day late, sue me.
(When I went on Sunday to upload the recording I’d made Saturday morning, I found there was an odd humming sound rivering just underneath my voice. No one wants to suffer this. The downside, though, is there were also whispers in that fucked up recording of the enormous wedding party just outside my window. Cars happily honking, people shouting, much singing—all on one of the first blue, beautiful, nearly-warm Brooklyn days of the year. In the park I saw daffodils just beginning to sprout.1 A perfect budding of spring, which, as this goes live on Monday, we are officially in the first day of!)
This is, I confess, a bit of a cheat. Rather than reading from the section covered in last weekend’s letter, I’m luxuriating in the transitional passage between that and next weekend’s reading, the passage in which our dear narrator spies on the sadistic foreplay between Mlle Vinteuil and her cruel “friend.”
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