When I went to the nuthouse, I brought two books with me: Orhan Pamuk’s Snow and Gyorgy Konrad’s Stonedial. The latter is the closest I will ever have to a bible; every time I’ve gone somewhere new, that book has come with me. After all, Dragoman wouldn’t have walked through the double doors of the psychiatric hospital with shoulders rounded, arms clenched, flinching at every touch and trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to be hurt; Dragoman would have walked in like he owned the place, grinned, cracked a joke… he would have treated their confiscating of his clothing as amusing and, if I’m […]
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