I began Gerald Murnane's Last Letter to a Reader with a sense of relief, as one coming into the home passage, not walking nor sinking, knowing the way. These are sentences that carry me, even if, by the time I am halfway through the book I am a little tired of finding myself in this writing fabric, his, and also, with hardly a twitch of the tale, mine as well. I have always had a ready diffidence where words are concerned. The levelness, evenness of Gerald Murnane's account of his writing and reading self, eventually gets to me; and I would rather watch a movie.
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