So when Proust did it, it’s art but when Margery Kempe did it, it’s “untutored and erratic mysticism.”

Don’t mind me, I’m just reading an introduction to Kempe’s Book and getting mad on her behalf centuries later.

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Like “oh sure she pretty much invented Western autobiography but she didn’t have a dongle so IT’S NOT PERFECT.”

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Ragged Feathers

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