One

This is from a recent conversation I had with the second most famous African novelist (and the most famous Kenyan novelist) in the whole history of the world, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.

Me: So, do you know of a man called Jared Angira? He is a Kenyan.
Ngũgĩ: Not the Jared Angira. The poet?
Me: Yes, the poet.
Ngũgĩ: Of course I do. He is one of the best poets that Kenya has produced. He is very well known in my country. I even think he is the most well known poet in Kenya. Is he big in Zimbabwe?
Me: No, I don’t think so. But I met and learned of him here, in Seattle. He lives here now.
Ngũgĩ: (his face expressing total disbelief) What? How can this be? He lives in Seattle? What in world is he doing here?
Me: He still writes and will be teaching poetry at a local literary center.
Ngũgĩ: Did I tell you that he is the best poet in Kenya? He is very famous in Kenya…

The poet Ngũgĩ clearly admires is teaching a course at Hugo House called This Africa: Sub-Saharan Poetry. If you want be in the presence of the real African deal, this is your chance.

Two

Speaking of the courses at Hugo House, the coordinator of the teaching program is currently under suspicion of having broken into my apartment and, after examining its contents, developing a big part of the fall courses around my reading habits—as made evident to them by the books in my modest library. One course is called Proust for Beginners, which promises to expose students to the magical world of Swann’s Way. From the course description: “Flowers, food, a small French town on a Sunday morning, a group of girls walking along the seashore. Unforgettable characters, satires of Parisian high society, insights into the psychology of love, vagaries of memory and more.” Is there really more than this? Yes there is! Another course is called Reading Lolita in Seattle, which promises to expose students to “one of the most disturbing and original novels of the 20th Century.” If I taught this class it would be called Reading Lolita in Eternity. I have never stopped reading it. The book is the life of my language.

Three

“There was a double bed, a mirror, a double bed in the mirror.” After reading this sentence a few days ago (I was in a double bed at the time), I felt the need to underline it but then stopped myself. I then realized not a single sentence or paragraph was underlined in my copy of Lolita. All of my other books are ruined by blue, black, red lines, so why was Lolita, after so many readings, still pristine? Why? Because to underline the great passages of the book is to underline the whole book itself. One unending line, from the first word, “Lolita,” to the last, “way.” Not underlining it is the only sane way of underlining everything—words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, the book.