What is this culture of writing into which we find ourselves more and more drawn?  It has somehow the reek of narcissistic self-indulgence but at the same time it is a mystery, so much more than a mere passing fancy, a fad, a caprice of fashion, and somehow a daring, fearless, headlong plumbing of the very depths of what makes us all human, a vanguard drawing up from the nihilistic abyss precious, dripping threads and cords of identity without which we would all be less than animals, both bereft of the serenity of not caring who and what and why we are and crushed by the torment of the certain curse that we shall never have any answer.

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