We all have some moment in childhood when we tremble with apprehension in both senses of the term, luminous with the future and oppressed by the intolerable density of the present. It is an unreclaimable fullness of being, pained yet faintly ecstatic, swelling toward rupture, which self-preservation, in its timid cunning, obliges us to sublimate. What remains is a residue, a distortion: the particular shape that sublimation assumes—arbitrary or secretly ordained—the only livable remainder of an excess of possibility for which life itself proved inadequate.
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