Poor James Joyce, who was somebody else who crawled under furniture when it thundered. Poor Beethoven, who never learned to do simple child’s multiplication. Poor Sappho, who leaped from a high cliff, into the Aegean. Poor John Rushkin, who had all those other silly troubles to begin with, of course, but who finally also saw snakes.
David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress
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