Just typed out a whole chunk but it's gone missing. Will probably appear again and I'll repeat myself endlessly. Reading Patricia Highsmith's biography 'Beautiful Shadow'. The contents page alone is poetic - Chapter 6 - A trail of unmade beds, Chapter 12 - Instantly I love her, Chapter 18 - A Lurking liking for those that flout the law, Chapter 35 - Art is not always healthy and why should it be?
Highsmith likens the artist to a spider spinning a web from within itself, and less prettily said it was necessary to strip away the protective patch of normality to reveal the festering wound underneath.
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