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September 23, 2014

She elaborates her vision of the writer over dinner, an endeavor for which the setting could not be more appropriate. To hear her speak, words losing themselves in the steam from cups, the writer’s task is before all that of digestion. By extension, a good writer is a good digester, she pursues. Any fool can spin literary gold from glistening moss spied between the arches of a railway bridge, for the striking visual stimulus of the moss by night is easily assimilated into the text. No, only the truly talented can take a person’s history and make of it a symbol, and, for this, nothing less than an exquisite palate, thoroughgoing digestion and time will do.

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