And a Door Creaks Open
Marisa sometimes threw balls of sand at us, and sometimes burst in, shouting "Stop it, who cares about this Dostoyevsky, who gives a damn about the Karamazovs." Then Nino abruptly broke off and walked along the shore, head lowered, until he became a tiny speck [...] Meanwhile I felt better and better, I couldn't believe that life could be like this. Maybe, I thought, the girls of Via dei Mille--the one dressed all in green, for example--had a life like this. -Elena Ferrante (My Brilliant Friend) Recently, a friend of mine suggested that this blog should no longer be called "Dining with Dostoevsky." He said that, as things now stood, it would be better to call it "Dining after Dostoevsky. . . .