Grandma’s Ball of String
I cup my ball of string in my hands—hands that look with each passing year more and more like my grandmother’s, age spots and all—and the theory of everything slowly unfolds.
memoir
Cave Games
This past week I introduced one of my classes to the first few pages of Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory—not an easy read for experienced readers, much less engineering students who, with only one week left before final exams, are buried chin deep in calculus problems and AutoCAD projects. One section, however, seemed to speak to …