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I’m currently writing my very last college paper on Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. It’s fitting, I suppose, considering how much trouble I went to two summers (my summer of Brooklyn and Bolaño) ago to score a galley of this, and then when I left it somewhere in Dumbo, I had to jump through even more hoops—kind of not metaphorically speaking—to get another copy.
This line from the novel pretty much encapsulates how I feel about the impending real world: “What a relief to give up literature, to give up writing and simply read!” Each of the three final papers I’ve had to write has, now more than ever, felt like pulling teeth, especially since I drag them out until 2 am of the due date. “Oops.”
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