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Me and Sylvia at the Memorial (April 2009)

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What was venerated as style was nothing more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand.

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Our bedtime story tonight was Chapter 4 of Moominpappa at Sea. Here I am remembering what I really liked about this book last time I read it -- other than the beautiful prose -- in this chapter Moominpappa, who has previously (in this book and mostly in the others as well) seemed to me like the least complete of the major characters, alternately a petty tyrant and a bumbling goofus, starts to establish himself as someone I can really identify with.

posted evening of Sunday, September 18th, 2005
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