Wheresoe’er I turn my view, All is strange, yet nothing new; Endless labour all along, Endless labour to be wrong; Phrase that Time has flung away, Uncouth words in disarray: Trickt in antique ruff and bonnet, Ode and elegy and sonnet.
“I’d done this before and here I was doing it again: retreating from the present into a past that gives me comfort.”
Art Spiegelman
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