"...once a life is contained, made final, as if flattened within the pages of a diary, it becomes a small, contracted thing. It is just a life, one of millions, as arbitrary as everyone else's, a named tenancy that will soon become a nameless one; a life that we know, with horror, will become thoroughly forgotten within a few generations."
Why?
James Woods
The New Yorker
December 9, 2013
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