The act of writing anything worthwhile always takes place at that strange and sometimes disturbing crossroads where aloneness and intimacy meet. The solitariness of the writer, sometimes at a desk, sometimes while writing in a notebook on a skittering knee while travelling, always, if followed rightly, culminates in a radical form of undoing that leads to the distinctions between aloneness and togetherness breaking down altogether. This break of the boundary between what we think is a self and what we think is other than our self is where the rich vein of beauty and insight become a reward in
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