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4 On Leaving Home We all need exile once in a while: actual or inner, no matter. We need to be far from what matters, whatever is the matter. To be clear, the former and the latter have to do with the mother and the timber from which we’re made. I, for one, have elms—for forts, for sprinting under— at my center, meaning also Dutch Elm and canker. As for the mother, she did what she could and did despite the weather: the gray light, the cloud cover. I was a foreigner in a print Neverland at first; only later was it actual: new cities, new coasts. Nowhere, of course, was I able to forget the fretted agate clouds and anvil shapes of matter, mother and weather. ...

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