Mar
29th
Sun
29th
What sort of woman had written the letter? He tried to picture her by systematically recalling his own lovers, but they merged into a roundelay of fleeting impressions, their eyes, faces, hairdos, clothes, voices, and gestures all blending together. And he knew that none of these women, however enchanting, would ever try rekindling a lost love through a reverie drawn from wilderness.
— A Birch Tree, A White Fox by Elena Arsenieva; translated from the Russian by Michael M. Naydan and Slava I. Yastremski
