Worrisome news from Paris. M. is not well, in a way that too much resembles my experience this summer. Which cannot possibly be contagious....
And in the back of my mind, as I continue to work rapidly through the plans for the book with Gerhard, is a worry: if I do indeed move forward through some of life's clouds, and if many things suddenly seem brighter, more possible – if I am, in fact, given more than I have expected for a long time, then does that mean – as an inevitable corollary, as the rigorous and unquestionable balancing of an equation – that something huge must be taken away? Is this, in some weird oblique way, my fault?
Perhaps this is why it seemed safer to try for less, to expect little, hope for nothing....
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