![]() For a moment my evolved cynic was put to dream. I felt like a kid with de Saint-Exupery in my hands, or a teenager in concert with Dostoevsky or García Márquez for the first time. It is a small rip but has ruined the entire couch and thrown the apartment into disarray.” All the sudden I felt that something extraordinary was taking place. In the third paragraph of the story I read this “There is a small tear in the couch I never noticed until now a piece of leather hangs off like a tongue. A classmate brought a published story into our short literature seminar. ![]() ![]() Everything I read had flaws and, even more so, it lacked aesthetic courage, the courage needed to make the reader dream, to make the reader forget those flaws. I was in my second year of the Brooklyn College MFA program, and I had recently reached the numbing moment. ![]()
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