As if I’d come overcome by feverish passion to mistake fluidity for stability: to see mountains in the green waves breaking around a boat. Should I have said “I know you’ll read her diary”? Would she have turned to me, eager to protect her brother, and let the unbidden word come to her lips: “Who won’t?” I’d actually wanted back in at another point entirely: to intervene. I had no desire to be walking in Grasmere with the sister and brother, and also no desire to be here writing the words “I had no desire.” Read More
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