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Of course, I can never say what I really want to say because language itself is a straitjacket. Between love and desire are 600 nonwords that can only be grunted or painted or danced. This is not to imply that I have given up on trying to free myself and stretch. Nineteenth-century doctors thought reading novels — even nonscandalous ones — induced mental illness. Houdini claimed he dislocated his shoulder in order to escape his straitjacket, but that has since been proven false. I have often found that by employing wiggles, patience, and silence, a close-enough word will come along.

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