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Life of a book reviewer

From article:

After all these years I see that love is still the motive force. The honest work of art trumps the cynic, and elevates the critic, every time. When I close the covers, as I do from time to time, to heft the thing, I consider the weight of pages — not just these, but all the hard-won worthy novels, their millions of words coming toward the reader like armies over the hill.

Imagination, discipline, faith — how do we compute that karma? I suddenly think of the closing scene of that old noir classic “The Maltese Falcon,” the part where a detective lifts the statuette, the long-sought treasure. “Heavy,” he says. “What is it?” There is a pause, then Sam Spade’s glib, profound crack: “The…stuff that dreams are made of.”

The whole business in a nutshell, I’d say.

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