, by Annie Dillard. These writers are crawling into my head and tugging it around like a child does a loved but dirty stuffed toy. Dragging it behind them by one arm as they walk around, investigating.
And I can't stop reading.
I trust them; with my life, my mind. I don't really know why. Maybe because I've tasted the tiniest bead of a writer's life and feel the necessary power that it would take to get far enough down that path to become good. Power like that could only come from Love -- or Truth (which isn't always Love).
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