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can somehow be the essence of the human soul,
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that it can somehow communicate
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the truth of the universe just through its form: its human, distinctive form.
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It's a way of thinking about form that has more to do with
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individuality than it does with convention.
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Remember that way that Franny can identify the timbre of her brother's
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voice very specifically: it's like no other.
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So, Salinger imagines that the literary art imitates that kind of
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voice, and in that way it is a sacred practice, a sacred art.
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Barth rejects the idea
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that language is an unmediated form of access to the real:
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absolutely impossible for Barth to countenance that idea.