“It was that closeness that led me to notice the gaps that separated us.”
To a reader, a writer one has never met can feel like a close friend. That’s an illusion. But recognizing that illusion need not leave one sad or lonely.
Even if a writer dies pen in hand, he or she will not be able to write about what it is like to have died. Death is like an asymptote, something you can approach forever but never reach.
“Our teacher would fuss at Alice, but the Caterpillar? Flawless.”