. . My whole life was about to change. I was going to step into a hole and spend a year in the dark. Typical, I thought, for my life as I lived it then- in bewilderment, frowning at the futility and resenting the squandered time as it unrolled and flapped around me- seemed ragged and plotless: random, rancorous, out of my control, meandering from disorder into chaos, in the general direction of oblivion. In retrospect, I see that my life was in fact closely polotted and consequential, with the structural elaboration and subtle motifs of a Victorian novel, interwoven with grace notes, subplots, and coincidences that stretched credulity and yet were inevitable. This life of mine- perhaps all lives?- suffered from an excess of design: nothing was random, nothing wasted. The hole I'd stepped into was a thoroughfare that carried me to the future.
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