“The only thing that separates the writer from others—and, far from making him or her a better or wiser person, let alone a more amenable one, as it redoubles the force of solitude, ‘one’s ultimate hard irreducible inorganic singleness’—is that the reading of a poem, or the pondering of a Crucifixion, becomes an event. Not a diversion, a flight, or a release from chores but an experience no less transformative than a day in bed with a lover.”
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