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76 Sara and I trundle along the trail, passing back and forth a question about how happiness might be related to leniency. I’ve been on this trail in many seasons. After his wife—his favorite model—died, Monet stopped painting people. He stood before the Rouen Cathedral in morning drizzle, or as the sun downed behind no cloud, and watched it vary. His shadows never render black but a yellower shade of white, or stone-mauve, a kind of thunderous gray. He said, Color pursues me like a constant worry. In January these mountains make a winterous cathedral, revealing how many kinds of bright there can be. Right now, they are timorous green getting ready to fan out fall’s gypsy textile flicker of magenta, vermillion, chartreuse, gold, and the barks of trees will blacken with damp. You’ll find someone else, Sara says. But all I want is to see the same landscape a thousand times and never repeat myself.To know the difference between white and white. mountains ...

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