I have been looking over my undergraduate thesis. "Surrealismo clandestino: Art and Experience in Roberto Bolano's 2666."
It's so embarrassing, I cringe. Not for who I was but for what I still recognize in myself. But it's a complete portal. I've never worked so hard in my life. I spent so long on each graf that I can recall the exact feeling of being in the library late at night, pacing, slapping my forehead, picking up book after book of theory. Manicuring, tending to each sentence a hundred times over until a word would crack from the polish and give me a clue where to go next.
"So who can blame me for picking up on this clue, for insisting upon it, when it seems so carefully arranged to promise me everything while conceding me nothing?"