Thursday, October 29, 2015


A gust of wind made it look as if the grass were racing away. A white plastic bag caught on the end of the hedge was flapping, and it struck me that someone who didn't know that wind existed would have thought that the bag was moving of its own accord. (Knausgaard, My Struggle, Book Three: Boyhood, transl. Don Bartlett, Archipelago 2014, p. 51)

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