I've just peeled tentatively open a slim, soft, signed copy of a novel called The Solitude of Prime Numbers by an apparently very handsome gentleman named Paolo Giordano. It was sent to me by a trusted friend and reader, and I am already committed to it over the several sad others sitting on my shelf because it has perhaps the loveliest epigraph and dedication I've ever read:
Her old aunt's elaborately trimmed dress was a perfect fit for Sylvie's slender figure, and she asked me to lace it up for her. "The sleeves are plain; how ridiculous!" she said.
- Gérard de Nerval, Sylvie, 1853
*
To Eleonora,
because in silence
I promised it to you
*
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