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“These words feel as if two waves of water meet each other, his and now mine, and collapse — but they sometime even obliterate, they are definitely torrid and some of mine are too fucking little, too fucking late. True to the man and what he taught, though, they are luminous even as they are tragic. And so unbelievably, painfully, precious now. Because I just thought there would be more. When really there are none.”

The whole writing is here:


My photograph of Lucretia's veil, from Joos Van Cleve's painting, 1525

(My photograph of Lucretia’s veil, from Joos Van Cleve’s painting, 1525.)