little-mumbles:

Sometimes I connect with a book not because it is particularly clever, or the language is particularly beautiful, but because it expresses its ideas in the same way I would. Even though the language might be clunky and misshapen, it shows me the world the way I see it. Arguably, it is the very strangeness of the language, pointing to its own imperfection, that allows it to express something unusual. It feels like me, like I could have written?

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