Essay: Strindberg's Front Door

No two things look alike. Memories of childhood are pure melancholy. Analogy is all we know for sure. That man's crutches are my grandparents. Shadows sway on the bookshelf. The third book on the left is like a house where Strindberg once lived and where he believed in ghosts. I once met a very old man in a working class bar in Helsinki who told me how he and his cousin used to knock on Strindberg's door and run away. 

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