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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

It’s day II of winter afternoon, or something of that sort when two tourists enter and reflexively brushed her shawl and his summer coat as if sufficiently frosted from effective air-conditioning and managed in a slightly less than imperious mien, meine hände sind eiskalt. I was surprised on two levels; the unbearable cold and my grotty understanding of Standard German vocabulary. Still, in a seemly inopportune moment of social ambiguity, we stood around in ridiculous cover ups and expressions of mutual agreement against the absurdity of an invisible blizzard indoors.

In other news, Playboy has won the rights to publish Nabokov’s final but incomplete novel therefore making me unnaturally eager for November’s issue. How they won the rights to a posthumous publication I have no idea, but that might make me take up the Playboy bandwagon anyway. Already in this month’s issue, they’re featuring previously unpublished fiction by Vonnegut, making me torn between ethics and the sublime narrative (I am pretty sure this falls under the category of speculative realism). I will most probably buy myself a copy or rummage through the garbage of expatriate estates so help me god.

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