We are, most of us, unrooted in place and time. (See pp. xxi – xxii of introduction to Nabokov’s Speak Memory.) Our obsession with stuff over substance, with the now over duration, with one-liners & tweets over discourse has seen us come unstuck (just like Billy Pilgrim).
“That this darkness is caused merely by the walls of time separating me from the free world of timelessness…” Nabokov’s remark on page 10 talks of the freedom of timelessness but I wonder if what we have (unanchored as we are) is that awful detachment of being unrooted. Post-modern angst.
Inkstained fingers 