I could ask the hotel front desk to wake me.
I could go buy an alarm clock.
Or I could lie in my little kapakahi hotel room (with what looked something like a storage space soaring over the corner where the miniature bathroom had been stuck in, and a great big mirror over the narrow bed to make it all seem wider) eating peanuts and raisins and Turkish deli chicken and reading Zadie Smith all night.
Thus it is that I have only the haziest idea of Zadie Smith and how it was that her book was on beauty. My vague impressions:
- Smith sure can hear people talk
- Odd that my haphazard book harvesting yielded, in a single week, in two different countries, two novels with major characters named Zora
- What, Rembrandt again?