Last night, I was in bed reading The Reader, lent to me by Ms. Andrea. The book made me feel deeply and quietly sad in a way that reminded me of one of my favorite books, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I regretted not having my copy with me, although there was no reason I should have brought it. About ten minutes later, Anya knocked on my door and came in. She commented that I was reading something new and I told her no more than the title, the nationality of the author, and that it was sad. Suddenly, she asked, “Do you like Kundera? Because Grisha’s mom has his books in English and I thought you might want to borrow them.”
It was weird. She’s going to get them for me next time she’s at her mother-in-law’s.
In the meantime, I’ve found English copies of short stories by Chekhov and Hemingway in English in our apartment. Also in English: poetry by Byron and stories by O. Henry. The Russians LOVE them, and none of us can explain this phenomenon.
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