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The artist must quake at the prospect of happiness: idiot happiness, dumb happiness.
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Fans: fanatics, let’s not forget. None so amorous as the fan, none so eviscerated by disappointment. Hero-worship is merely a series of epiphanies, each more devastating than the last (picture a staircase leading only downwards)– a fan is an unconsummated rage of love, one who holds up a mirror to our tyrannous, fickle, impoverished adorations. She is one who feels what Schopenhauer would call ‘the problem of life’ acutely and, above all, intimately.
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