I read “The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street” on the endless bus ride from Toronto to Montreal, and “The Moslem Wife” on the train from Prague to Berlin; the snow of the Swiss winter and the clear dawn of small town Canada are thus forever connected to the lyrical desolation of the 401 at night, and the pastel green shutters of Southern France, shut on a windless afternoon, to the steadily moving compartment traversing Central Europe, its glass doors and the warm glow that can be seen from afar, seeping out of its windows.