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dumbfoundry

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And never the Twain shall meet:
Worship at a literary shrine can take many forms: gazing at a blue plaque in London; joining the throngs who turn Dove Cottage into a babel that the Wordsworths would have loathed; strolling through Laugharne clutching a copy of Under Milk Wood, so that the rubicund jollity of Mr and Mrs Cherry Owen drowns out Mr and Mrs Dylan Thomas’s torment. Why do we do it, sometimes making detours of many miles to a birthplace or a grave?

Do we hope that through the genius loci, the spirit of place, we will gain insight into the work itself? [...]
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