dear stuart,
So here we are. I’ve taken you far and wide, and it’s now perhaps time
to simply bring the consoling fiction of this long epistolary farewell to a
modest close. It is one of the stranger experiences of aftermaths, of awak-
ening to irreversible finitude, that suddenly there is so much to say—
all the things that might have been talked about, but weren’t, when we
enjoyed the illusion of an infinity of conjunctures- to-come, the illusion,
you might have said, of a good night’s rest. Only after the last goodbye—
and with craving urgency—do you realize what you should have said but
didn’t, what you should have asked but didn’t. Is this what friendship
does with time? Is this the price friends pay for the hazard of contin-
gency? I don’t know. But it feels like it.
These letters to you are slightly involved, but they are meant only
to clarify what often lay in the interstices of our many conversations,
around their untidy, unfinished edges. They make no deep claim of any
proper analytical sort. Indeed, they abjure the privilege of the analytic.
They even seek to evade what conventionally goes by the name of criti-
cism. They honor thinking, I hope, but they make no argument, properly
speaking, at least of any sustainable sort. They want something else,
Walk Good
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