Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Story Of My Dovecot
Toward twelve o’clock, or perhaps a bit later, a man in felt boots passed across the square. He was stepping lightly on swollen feet, and in his worn-out face lively eyes glittered.
“Ivan Nikodimych,” he said, as he walked past the bird-fancier, “pack up your gear. In town the Jerusalem aristocrats are being granted a constitution. On Fish Street Grandfather Babel has been constitutioned to death.”
October 30, 2012 | Permalink
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