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We all realize, I hope, that I count as a day the interval between when I get up and when I go to bed again? None of this starting-and-ending-at-midnight stuff. What's the point if a book can't keep me up until three in the morning?

At any rate, Robertson Davies. My previous experience with him was in excerpt, in a (very good) college class on Arthuriana, and I cannot remember which one that was except that it was not the one everyone says is Arthurian, but rather something else, meant to be read in extreme allegory. I hated it profoundly, I could see the allegory but make no other sense of it, I hated everyone in it, and I avoided Davies thereafter.

However it was borne forcibly in on me about two years ago that indeed it is possible for a person to be, even when by the evaluations of both self and others an adult, too young still to read a book: I tried to read Middlemarch. Maybe when I am fifty. I recognized greatness, and fled. This led me to a certain charity towards things I'd read in college, and earlier, and hated, because well past when I thought it could have been me, it certainly could have been me.

And indeed, it was me, and this was lovely. )


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