“If God Were Like Chekhov, I Would Be Consoled.” On the Privileges of Misery

I was happily ambling up a hill in Santa Clarita, north of Los Angeles, relishing my good fortune—since I’d just flown from gray, wintry Cleveland, where the sky resembled frozen cement, while here the sky was so blue it seemed like a lake, and the sun felt like summer—when I received Mark’s text canceling our Literary Hub

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