Could it be–cryptomnesia? Long peroration on whether Nabokov cribbed Lolita from another book and whether, if he did, he meant to. I don’t know about Writer Type Writers, as in the Real Thing, but I once cribbed four paragraphs of a piece from…an essay I’d written roughly four years previously. Which probably means that if imitation is the best form of flattery that I’m a flaming narcissist. (Note that there are four ‘I’s in the last two sentences. Five if you’re counting the last three.)

* Schadenfreude and the Babu: Some of you (yeah, yeah, the ones who wrote mocking letters) might remember a post from a while back on the strangeness of reading to an audience of two people. I’m in exalted company. According to this NYT piece on a book about author humiliations, Carl Hiaasen and William Trevor have shown up for readings to find no one there. (I had two readers, Carl, two! Count them and weep!)

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