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That hovers in the air

By E. B. de Vito / January 21, 1986



In certain books, some in the first few paragraphs, you know that you have met a brother. Robert Henri Sometimes as I read somewhere a thought I never thought to share, or when I stumble on a rare something that hovers in the air: a fleeting moment when you show something you cannot know, but know, it seems that all discovery is only another twist or view: the old renewed, what was told, retold, where we can highlight or take note of something that was always there -- like Baudelaire, translating Poe because to him ``he resembled me.'' I am like you. You are like me: we always find ourselves in others. There is no way to lose ourselves: however endlessly or aimlessly or to what far ends of the earth we roam, it is never too far to find our brothers. There is nowhere to go but home.

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