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It was an odd experience, this bringing to life of pages born of my pen and forgotten. From time to time they interested me — they surprised me as much as if someone else had written them; yet I recognized the vocabulary, the shape of the sentences, the drive, the elliptical forms, the mannerisms. These pages were soaked through and through with my self — there was a sickening intimacy about it, like the smell of a bedroom in which one has been shut up too long.
