So many of my favorite writers were at some point separated from their place of origin—Nabokov, Sebald, Aciman...Their deep sense of loss is a like a shadow trailing the language at every turn. Paradoxically, the force of their felt desire is the source of the beauty.
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Wait, Célne was writing about a lost Ireland? What have I missed?
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I meant Joyce.
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I could trace these writers, including Céline, back to Baudelaire.
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Feels like a stretch to me.
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