Despite Arnold’s assurances, learning to write was not at all like learning to draw. To draw, I needed to open my eyes wide; to write, I needed to shut them tightly and turn the gaze on my naked self. We were both in a fervent state of uncharted creativity—me for the first time, him for the second. We pulled all-nighters and still managed to make love afterward. We critiqued each other’s work—brutally, lavishly, meticulously—not as teacher and pupil, but as collaborators. If I saw something lacking in his painting, I would pick up a brush and make my corrections directly on the canvas. If he
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