You don’t know me

I’m reading Joseph Brodsky’s extended essay about Venice, a place where he spent several winter breaks ghosting through the alleys and fading palazzi, as well as several other short stays. He tells a story of sitting in his hotel room during a biennale, and getting a call from Susan Sontag, who invited him to go to tea with Ezra Pound’s widow because she didn’t want to go alone.

I’m hanging around with the wrong people.

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