For Proust, it was a madeleine. Yesterday, the smell of a particular blend of mud restored me to my childhood.
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I still look under my pillow for the spider that died there in 1983.
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Truth is complex, lies are easy. Fiction solves this problem by wearing its untruth on its sleeve –– thereby asserting kinship with its supposed opposite.
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Nothing kills reading more effectively than its elevation to a virtue.
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