I was reading this book and it made me want to collect stamps for a while. It didn’t change my life or anything, but it reminded me that I love books. I need to read more. I will read more.
“You see, in spring, when the dandelions bloom again, the wine goes through a fermentation. As if they remembered.” No, thought Oedipa, sad. As if their home cemetery in some way still did exist, in a land where you could somehow walk, and not need the East San Narciso Freeway, and bones could rest in peace, nourishing the ghosts of dandelions, no one to plow them up. As if the dead really do persist, even in a bottle of wine. — p. 99