In the calm communion with and recognition of one's ancestors. And one has to somehow sacrifice the suffering man to make great art, to transcend one's own state. There is some of this in Woolf's concept of transcendence in art. In opposition Viv, the wife not the writer, the clever dilettante, was seen as all excess of emotions. Doomed to thingness, to the body, to immanence. Reduced to her blood, her bowels, her body. A tortured Molly Bloom, wondering at her hole. I am also in communion with my ancestors. Writing towards these women is like engaging in a seance. I put pictures of my
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