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Like I'm a web server and everything around me is a hit, an ask, a demand. I was thinking His hidden names seem like a metaphor for how love works: you can never really know another person, not completely.I send back a slow-loading web page with a pile of paragraphs and some assets. Or I get the hit and I have nothing, I just stand there numb, counting seconds. Love is a kind of faith: you give it without knowing if it will be returned or how long its returning will last., I became obsessed with how female identity is represented in Victorian England.Particularly, how female "innocence" is seen through the eyes of male figures—and how that has or has not changed in the last few centuries. Leaving was a fix I'd theretofore regularly administered: schools, jobs, relationships—all quittable in the impulsive instant, provided you can live without care, money, or instruction. I'm a Virgo and I live for a plan, a list, knowing what is and what isn't. As a child, I would write lists imagining what my life would look like: a loving husband, two kids, a house, and maybe a dog.I intended for this title to be provocative, or rather, I embraced the provocation when the title came to me.It's one of those sentences that arrived in my mind fully formed, and it just happened to be rhythmic and mysterious—so I went with that.
Like I'm delivering an acceptance speech at the Oscars or something, but the only "award" I've received is the gift of being alive.When I've studied these moments, a history, they reveal themselves not as single moments but a continuum of conflicts, incessantly opening, branch and bloom. The volta of the Elizabethan sonnet is one of my favorite literary and intellectual inventions.Because it readjusts the rhetoric of the poem, sometimes even pulling arguments inside out like a sleeve, it communicates that a changed position is possible.Like a whirling dervish, the movement of each broken sonnet is contemplative.One of the most resistant images from my childhood, which comes to me from time to time, is the damp school corridor and the cleaning ladies who warn in a threatening tone: "Don't step here!
Whereas in mourning, the object of loss is clear and can be released by the mourner with time, in melancholia, what has been lost can remain hidden and becomes internalized—"devoured" by the ego, as Freud writes.