Books are so solid and insistent, but somehow they put me in mind of my impermanence. They surround me and, because of this, have become a form for my living. When I’m at my desk, I feel the presence of a literary history, of which I am apart and can subvert in my own modest ways. I feel fortunate to forge a life and a living through literature. Even if I were to tidy up the space, to clear off my desk, to relieve the shelf of some weight, the area would return to its state of controlled disarray. I have no aspirations to fix it or to change as a person. I aspire to read and to write as much as I can. If I’m lucky, as I am right now, I’ll get to do so in front of a window out of which I can see trees ache and bloom all summer. Really, I want to live as though the world were one long summer of aching and bloo
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