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Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Story Of My Dovecot

Isaac Babel:

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.”

Good times.

ntodd

October 30, 2012 | Permalink

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