“Sepp,” my mentor from graduate school, still writes me back once in a while. He always begins his letters like this: “I am dictating this letter in Berlin.” It can be from Paris, Madrid, Kyoto, or Rio. He dictates his letter and his secretary Margaret in Palo Alto types it up and mails it to me in Tokyo. This particular line reminds me of his deep baritone voice and laugh that sounds like he is about to have a fit. I don’t have a lot of good memories from graduate school, except Sepp’s seminars and “philosophical reading group” every Thursday evening. When I left my teaching position at Penn State, he was the only academic mentor who bluntly asked me “Was it that bad?” and would maintain our friendship. I just hope that his dictation recorder will keep running wherever he goes.
"I'm from Libya," he said. I don't know what to say. It's as if he'd told me he'd just come from his father's funeral.
The first specialty coffee shop in Ikebukuro and Junkudo (bookstore) resonate.
Editing is interpreting.
The Riddle of Steel.
The man stands motionless in a crush of white-shirted salarymen, as they swarm past him, toward the single escalator.
Rêve de centre commercial-piscine
Birthday walk home