Scribbling Cynic

Rambling thoughts, sudden inspirations, general wittiness

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The writers we absorb when we’re young bind us to them, sometimes lightly, sometimes with iron. In time, the bonds fall away, but if you look very closely you can sometimes make out the pale white groove of a faded scar, or the telltale chalky red of old rust.
"The American Boy" by Daniel Mendelsohn, The New Yorker, January 7, 2013

Filed under The New Yorker The American Boy Daniel Mendelsohn writers

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