It’s a novel meditating on the reader’s relation to the writer. From Hallucinating Foucault by Patricia Duncker
[M]aybe when you care, terribly, painfully, about the shape of the world, and you desire nothing but absolute, radical change, you protect yourself with abstraction, distance. Maybe the remoteness of my texts is the measure of my personal involvement? Maybe that chill you describe is a necessary illusion?
Cool sense of disavowal.
And so for day 624