22 May 2007. May sun, ripples of gold-silver across turquoise pool... "I thank you for my grandchildren," from a speech, yesterday, at the commencement ceremony. What does it all mean? Nabakov's word: poshlust'--from Gogol, Myortviye Dushy. A Russian peasant on the road. Yurodivy--the holy fool. Speaking in riddles--his clothes in tatters. "You look like a homeless man." That was last year, when the pants still had paint on them. What should one be. I put my arm around his shoulder--the first gesture. But the words are misunderstood--"a deeper reading." All of us, joined by the lines, not divided. "Goin' home to...live with Moses..."
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