10.30 in the morning

I had forgotten until I picked up Antonio Tabucchi’s For Isabel this morning, as I need a small pocket sized book to take to the optician with me, how much I admired and loved the book, a fine translation by Elizabeth Harris, Such a nice translation. In my jacket pocket i walk to the optician, — the text itself is a fine example of Tabucchi’s extreme talent, a work written and translated with incredible levels of diligence and care. It’s constructed to show a man traveling through a mandela, a life of concentric circles of evidence to identify truth and evidence. A complex structure that we live in… The optician though, new glasses, four pairs necessary… expensive of course… I opened my eyes. The violinist was standing in front of the coop, bare feet on a small prayer carpet, playing some bach as I left to walk back up the hill…