Ken Baumann: So Isabel Pabán Freed’s newest essay feels like an all-timer. It’s a fearless articulation of one’s love for novels mixed in with a simple admission of the bad circumstances that can rearrange a life, and a description of how art helps keep us alive, and an account of how all those dumb circumstances—status and money and publishing, the bullshit about which so much kvetching swirls—are distractions, all a broad self-sabotage of the lowest order, and that the point is to stay alive and keep writing and make a life worth walking through.
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