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Honestly, and despite a CB Fox truffle I ravished Tuesday afternoon, I haven’t felt wonderful this week.Everything is going well. It’s not that. I could write a tremendous family-letter style digest about all my accomplishments and joys.This would bore you to tears. Your nose might even start to run.Life could almost not be better, yet I found myself sitting, glum as old gum, in the UNM - Los Alamos library, thinking I should probably read something to enhance my indulgent misery, “One Hundred Years of Solitude” or – I cringed as though I had just eaten a bad beef ball – Pablo Neruda.I like romance. Love, I’m fine with. But Neruda brings on reverse peristalsis.Maybe my disgust for Neruda will vanish in my old age, much as my contempt for John Steinbeck has flipped completely on its back, a vanquished, childish turtle, now that I’m 30 and appreciative.But for now, I wouldn’t even read Neruda if I were stuck on a desert island with only Neruda’s poetry to keep me literate.
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