My writing can be read by everyone, but not by anyone. It’s perfectly safe for thousands or millions to see, but Circeanly intoxicating to the (un)fortunate few.
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I go through essayistic stages of amorousness. I’m presently revisiting Steiner’s comparative piece on St. Paul and Plato. In some shape or form, Calasso never leaves my nighttable. Same goes for Kraus, Musil and Leopardi; all of whom I see as essayists of the first order.
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I have no idea who any of these are

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