i read cat's cradle first in florence, found coins and the third language of those four months. we passed it around, further creasing the blue and silver binding. he brought a hardcover narcissus and goldmund to mexico, i sat beside him, not speaking. at the end of the flight, he showed me the edge, golden letters, the finest lines, deepset in the off-gray, royal blue cover.
this was passed too, given away, returned.
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