Selling Levin

They say that when Tolstoy was dying, he climbed up out of bed and made a dash for the woods. He didn't make it and died along the way; at a selling bus stop I think it was. I suppose that, in one way or another, we are all running like Tolstoy. Some of us run farther. Some of us run faster. All of us are heading for the bus stop with the exception, perhaps, of Fernando Pessoa. If you read The Book of Disquiet, you shall discover that Pessoa was already at the bus stop. Nobody knows when the bus is coming or going. I don't care much for timetables.

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