Two years have passed since the total eclipse of which I write. Some tasteless fate presses it upon you it becomes part of the complex interior junk you carry with you wherever you go. ![]() It was a painting of the sort which you do not intend to look at, and which, alas, you never forget. It was a print of a detailed and lifelike painting of a smiling clown’s head, made out of vegetables. ![]() I lay in bed and looked at the painting on the hotel room wall. ![]() This article is adapted from Dillard’s recent book.
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