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When I was in Gary and I would read novels I used to put myself right in the middle of the story. I knew it was a great book when it felt like the author was writing about me. Some of the time I’d get snapped out of the book when I read things that I couldn’t pretend were about me, even if I had the imagination of Mr. William Shakespeare.

Words like ‘her pale, luminescent skin’ or ‘her flowing mane of golden hair’ or ‘her lovely, cornflower-blue eyes’ or ‘the maiden fair.’ I would stop and think, No, Deza, none of these books are about you.

From The Mighty Miss Malone by Christopher Paul Curtis. A most excellent read.

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