I blame father for lots of things but not for that — because it really is agony to talk to her about books. When I was longing for a calm discussion of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, she said “Ah, it’s the overlapping dimensions that are so wonderful. I tried to paint it once, on a circular canvas” — and then she couldn’t remember who Natasha was.
I don't know who Natasha is either, but I've never read it, so I'm probably missing some context, but the painting thing is funny.
