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Every day I set less store on intellect.
Marcel Proust in Contre Sainte-Beuve, as quoted by James K. A. Smith in Imagining the Kingdom

I’m thinking about Proust and form and fiction.

This Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, I found the favorite gelato of my so-far life in Trastevere (Sur del Lago at Fior di Luna); waltzed over the piazza facing the Coliseum in heels; and ran out to the tip of the rocks on the Tyrrhenian Sea (for which Kylee named me a nimble Puck).

That’s my fair share of splendor.

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