I stand up quietly. Dimly, I can hear the buzz of conversation at Blackwell's Cafe, but I don't register anything. All morning, I have been reading Kundera's Testaments Betrayed, and my thoughts are full with Rabelais, Rushdie, Kafka, and of course, Kundera himself, and his limpid prose. But now, I have a lunch appointment at Balliol, and I must
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