A strange dizziness plagues me this morning. I feel tired and off-kilter. I ate my breakfast earlier than usual, before 10:00, believing that this feeling is a result of last night's small dinner. But this cloud persists. I cannot blame legal or illicit substances, nor do I suffer from a lack of sleep. I listen to my body, although I don't always make the right choices, but today I am stumped. I'm sure it will pass as the hours pass and as my coffee does its job.
This morning I'm reading an essay on Borges (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/books/review/Galchen-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2&ref=books). This essay discusses his fondness of Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Wrecker," a 1892 novel displaying prose and plot much different from anything Borges produced. Perhaps that's why it appealed to him. I have not read "The Wrecker," nor have I read Borges's analysis. But I have read much of Borges's own stories (many on our honeymoon, lying in the Santorini sun). I wouldn't hesitate to call him one of my favorite writers. A short story I wrote was once called Borgesian— quite possibly the best complement I've ever received.
My office is cold. The weather today is mild, like yesterday. A pleasant break from an early summer heat, too oppressive for June. But in here I'm ashamed to admit a small heater is pointed at my sandaled feet.
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