For many years I'd annually drive from Ithaca or Aurora to Talcottville, New York, to put myself in the proximal harmonies of Edmund Wilson's stone house, chiefly because Fred Exley had recommended this in the second volume of his trilogy. As an expedient in re-generating enthusiasm for literary criticism, it was invaluable and faultless. I've not been there in a few years now. LUCIDITY FORCE EASE.
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