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Some days I felt and urgent responsibility to each change of light outside the sunporch windows. Who would remember any of it, any of this our time, and the wind thrashing in the buckeye limbs outside? Somebody had to do it, somebody had to hang onto the days with teeth and fists, or the whole show had been in vain. That it was impossible never entered my reckoning, For work, for a task, I had never heard that word. -Annie Dillard
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This is clearly full of references to a work of which I am clumsily unaware.
So why does it make so much sense to me? When the one is lying, strong, and proud, why is the other who is unassuming, confident, and true left feeling weak and undignified in her wake? Why?
This can't be the voice of truth, that now whispers uncertainty in my ear. No, it is another voice. Let's conclude that her very aura and effect is a lie. I hope I never understand the hardness, or become that way, a hard shell that protects an empty hollow.
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