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Modern styles are confessions of failure, point helplessly to a world which, in the end, eludes the writer. Kafka's baffling directness, Joyce's infinite ingenuity; Mann's lifelong impersonation of a boring old codger; the raveled syntax of Proust and James, that interminable prose which always seems to find room for one more quibbling clause: all these styles are wonderfully eloquent and successful confessions, but what they confess is a failure to make language reach right up to the world. The idea of the mot juste has died on us, because no words are entirely right any more.
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