“The big question remains the same: will I become totally irrelevant before I become completely useless, or vice versa?” asks this kid doing the work, who has had a posthumous reputation since he was 25 or so
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I was 35 or 36 when I realized I had failed as a writer, that I would never be a writer, that I had done what I could with what I had. It was an odd realization, to be sure, because what would success have looked like?
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My days were numbered: as a teacher, as a writer, etc. I still sell writing, of course, and I do my best with it, but as I said in those excerpts...I missed happiness by a few minutes at some appointed location. I wish I'd done a better job of it all
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