can xue postscript
I didn't nail it. She gives you a world you have to detach from, then makes it hard— gruesome, dilated, a constant irritant to the aesthetic faculties, to the mind, the heart— and every now and again, and finally at the end, snaps the bonds and fills the world with light and space again. I am still thinking about this book. Everything I care about is imperfect— I can't care about perfect things— and I don't make even "imperfect" most of the time myself: wait two hours before applying adjectives
Not a lot going on here. I'm as frustrated as you are. More... soon... more...
