When I persue through the fiction section of The New Yorker, my heart lifts and drops at the same time. It expands as though to float away, yet constricts in a way that gives it substantial weight. I’m filled with despair and inspriation all at once, in a range of thoughts from “why can’t I write like this?” to “keep on trucking!”

Currently enamored with this piece by Jeffrey Eugenides. (He wrote The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, but I have yet to read any of his novels, though I am tempted to now. Neither of the premises appeal to me–too self-indulgent perhaps? though most of the fiction I read is of that sort of nature. The mind is a mysterious thing.)

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