[W]hatever I am, or have since become, I know now that slip­pe­ri­ness isn’t all of it. I know now that a stu­died eva­si­ve­ness has its own limi­ta­tions, its own ways of inhi­bi­ting cer­tain forms of hap­pi­ness and plea­sure. The plea­sure of abi­ding. The plea­sure of insis­tence, of per­sis­tence. The plea­sure of obli­ga­tion, the plea­sure of depen­den­cy. The plea­sures of ordi­na­ry devo­tion. The plea­sure of reco­gni­zing that one may have to under­go the same rea­li­za­tions, write the same notes in the mar­gin, return to the same themes in one’s work, relearn the same emo­tio­nal truths, write the same book over and over again—not because one is stu­pid or obs­ti­nate or inca­pable of change, but because such revi­si­ta­tions consti­tute a life.