As a writer I feel like I’ve been living in a paint store my whole life. The word-paint store. I have a lot of paints in my palette, so any felicities aren’t really exactly of my own making. It’s just that I’m available for the arrival of the words. I like that feeling a lot. I feel like a good curator of a museum like the Morgan Library. I have some good, old things lying around. I just have to make sure it’s climate-controlled and that they’re arranged… not fortuitously, but the opposite.

Suspended Reason
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