Yes, I have returned to Tuscompton. I canny take it no longer. My fingers twitch uncontrollably, tapping, typing, imitating, mimicking Proust in my sleep and it all goes to waste. No Longer. Breathe through me, dear Muse. Arouse yourself. Shake the slumber. Aha! Come along, Meesta Gray. He is dead.
The time and place we are born, our parents, the language we speak - these are chance, not choice. It is the casual drift of things that shapes our most fateful relationships. The life of each of us is a chapter of accidents. [...] Choice has become a fetish; but the mark of a fetish is that it is unchosen.
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