When you enter a beloved novel many times, you can come to feel that you possess it, that nobody else has ever lived there. You try not to notice the party of impatient tourists trooping through the kitchen {Pnin a minor scenic attraction en route to the canyon Lolita}, or that shuffling academic army, moving in perfect phalanx, as they stalk a squirrel around the backyard {or a series of squirrels, depending on their methodology}.
( Zadie Smith )
[ Changing My Mind: Occasional ]
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