I’’ve been reading Kundera’s Ignorance for the past few days (it’s ridiculously short, but I only get to read for a few minutes at a time) and have decided that it is by far the best best-book-ever book ever. Only, it has brought to my attention that I shall never love again the new, the strange, the unfamiliar. I will be inspired to love only to the extent that I will be inspired to nostalgia; the two emotions are indistinguishable to me. All nostalgic memory has a sweetness to it, and only that which reminds me of my former loves holds any new interest to me. If I love you now, it is only because I once loved someone much like you some time before, even if it was you in the past.

NP: The Samples, African Ivory