ABSTRACT
I believe that the literary imagination, too-which, of course, almost always harnesses the hot fury of Eros in its service-can also render the self permeable to influxes of large and impersonal truth. Where philosophers, as divergent as Spinoza and Hume, force us to consider the possible and strange truth of the self ’s fiction, the selves that we assume as writers and readers of fiction have a way of strangely finding truth.
