Seven years ago I dressed like a different author for each day in November. On November 8, 2017, I was Vladimir Nabokov.
This is one of my favorite Nabokovisms: “Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.”
(If you’ve considered reading some Nabokov, you may want to do it soon—before his books potentially become more difficult to find.)
(Also, please listen to the hat.)