was the Flaubert who wrote Madame Bovary eo ipso suicidal?

hence the pontine claim above

next to which the epiphanies of Joyce or redemptions of O'Connor seem pallid or crude

an undifferentiated mass of high-quality description and trenchant reflection that becomes both numbing and euphoric

I am acting as an evaluative filter, winnowing a very large field of possibilities down to a manageable absorbale Best for your delectation

I hear the caviling voices

my Decidering function is anentropic and therefore mostly exclusionary

I don't care much for abreactive or confessional memoirs

tired of the legerdemain of collapsing the word's neutral meaning--"preference, inclination"--into the pejorative one of "unfairness stemming from prejudice"

the sort of magical compression that enriches instead of vitiates