I thought I'd take a stylistic break from "Of Human Bondage" by reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer," and while it is undoubtedly a stylistic break, I'm nearing my saturation point on vaguely-arty Bohemian types living in squalor in Paris and moaning about the women they can't have. I'm only about 30 pages in, but I'm also a bit annoyed by the
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