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'Now I realise for the first time,' wrote William Faulkner to a woman friend, looking back from the vantage point of his mid-fifties, 'what an amazing gift I had: uneducated in every formal sense, without even very literate, let alone literary, companions, yet to have made the things I made. I don't know where it came from. I don't know why God or gods or whoever it was, selected me to be the vessel.'
Review, 5396 words
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