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I see her clouded face, the somber daubings of her untrained brush and think: there is more light than you guess. We all have windows that are still closed somewhere waiting to let in sun and stars and air like Chagall who said he came to Paris with some Russian soil still clinging to his shoes -- unaware that he saw out of windows he had not as yet created, not yet opened but that in some shadowy corner of his perceptions, from the very first were always there.

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