“It is strange, the morbid inclination we have to derive satisfaction from the fact (usually false and always irrelevant) that a work of art is traceable to a ‘true story.’ Is it because we begin to respect ourselves more when we learn that the writer, just like ourselves, was not clever enough to make up a story himself?”—Vladimir Nabokov, The Inspector General. From The Journalist and the Murderer, Janet Malcolm (1990).
“Until just a few years ago, there were 9 planets in the Solar System. However, the International Astronomical Union decided that Pluto is no longer a planet, so there are now only 8 planets in the Solar System.”—
[Just a reminder that we lost a planet not too long ago.]
"How many planets are there in the solar system?" The Universe Today, July 6, 2008
“Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.”—“An Afternoon in the Stacks" - William Stafford (1991)