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Feeling out of joint with the culture or our times as I do, I find myself escaping either into the future, through the reading of science fiction, or into the past, by reading works of earlier times, especially of those authors who seem more in tune with my soul, due probably to a similar defect of character that removed them from the popular current of their own era, in a like manner that I am drawn into dominions distant from the habitual haunts of my own - solitary men and women who cared little for the approbation or disparagement of publishers, critics and contemporary mavens who often panned their creations as unreadable folderol, and whose genius was only appreciated much later and so, as anyone who has blundered upon his opus has probably guessed, happenstance I've belatedly discovered, albeit only in translation, this fellow Proust, and he's already having the most marvelous effect on my writing. Oh!

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