On the plane, reading James, I composed in my head my scalding, scathing appraisal of Faulkner, with the aim of posting it here. Sadly, the former activity also gave me a splitting headache, precluding the latter. I offer instead -- and as, I assure you, only a temporary substitute -- a bit of dialogue on returning home
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[Wonder what kind is swanmeat.] Robinson Crusoe had to live on them: if he did, he kept it a secret.
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