‘Which is to say, I decided to write a poem.’

Ocean Vuong, writing for The New Yorker:

Reading and writing, like any other crafts, come to the mind slowly, in pieces. But for me, as an E.S.L. student from a family of illiterate rice farmers, who saw reading as snobby, or worse, the experience of working through a book, even one as simple as “Where the Wild Things Are,” was akin to standing in quicksand, your loved ones corralled at its safe edges, their arms folded in suspicion and doubt as you sink.

The final sentence in this piece is the most perfect summation of writing that I’ve ever read.

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