I haven’t read “Steppenwolf” in years. I used to read it annually. I’d get to about page 20 something and then
couldn’t stop reading until the end. It sang to me. But no more.
And nothing else Hesse or Kafka or Dostoevsky or…
Have I outgrown them?
Has the loss of my wife changed me so much? Has old age hardened and softened me at the
same time?
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