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Fearing an infective intrusion, I have huddled about this day, enjoying Bird, Blakey and Oliver Nelson, all the while burrowed under blankets and have read sixty pages of the Prieto. His efforts to Nabokov, while often successful, become tiresome. His blending of three time frames in the course of a single page was masterful, though ultimately the lost love (named V. a coy gesture, perhaps, to Vera Nabokov?) lacks the salient. We shall see.