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Later he tells me he was disturbed to see me, he had been thinking of the drive home as a spiritual enterprise, a journey he was trusting to gradually reacquaint himself with his old familiar world. “I pictured myself getting out of the car and touching the shrubs and hose on the side of the house and laying my hands against the siding,” he says.
No, things work out because of the way they work out, because I open one door and then another, because I find that ease can be one of the greater forms of freedom.
Vladimir writes a novel about a younger man’s tender affair with an older woman. She dies in a fire in a cabin in the mountains. There are many descriptions, similes, and metaphors that concern the loosening quality of her skin. The book is deemed well-written but “bleak” and does not do well, though he is long-listed for a few awards.