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In the early 1960s we pretended that we believed that it was possible that Ernest Hemingway had died by gun accident. We pretended that we believed that it was possible that Sonny Liston had been, in Lewiston, actually knocked to the canvas.
It came as an enormous relief when I realized the full import of Proust's revelation that memory is a process, not a kind of log.
Recently I read and reread Nick Tosches' The Devil and Sonny Liston. The book manufactures courage where there had been none.
Tosches: indifferent to the heart of darkness: (The Last Opium Den.)
In lucid dreaming, the roads go up and down, around lakes and ravines, in memoir and in fictionalized autobiography and as in a novel.
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