My preference for Great Art is that it should come at the end of long journeys, as a final, unexpected, noninevitable, sweet distillation of experience-- a blissful reparation for that suffered. Of course, you don't always get what you want..... too few Proust's.
I still want something more from the Aegypt Cycle, but what? Not necessarily another volume. Maybe I am just working up to a re-read? Or maybe, an urge to respond with my own, possibly unrelated, counter story? Too soon to tell. But the tale abides with me still.
I have no idea what Freud would have to say about me alluding to Lew Wallace's dedication to his wife "who abides with me [him] still" in Ben Hur?
Maybe when I die they will find books whole in my guts.... In fact I am certain of it if I don't get them out soon enough....