I wonder if some novels can be personal infohazards, transporting you back to a mindset that was self-destructive
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Iris Murdoch's A Severed Head fucked me up for years, also Lynda Barry's Cruddy
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but neither was transporting me back to anything
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Read Watership Down as a child. Depressed for months.
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50 x 12 = 600 months, to be precise
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