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Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.
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Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.
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Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.
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