A few summers ago, I found myself tongue-tied on a first date. When I’m in London, flirting tastes like the first day of Spring: it imbues the air with possibility, and teases out a linguistic recklessness in me. In Dutch, I seemed to inhabit a less sensuous version of myself.
Books, even books writers didn’t know they were writing, are born from discipline, by people who took their ideas seriously, even before they amounted to anything.
Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away–that is, in 1990s mid-Atlantic America, in which I was miserable in a very teenage way, being a teenager–I began to read Tom Robbins.
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