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I’ve been reading the Joan Didion oeuvre. She has an essay about Gamblers Anonymous. She attended a meeting in 1968, strictly as a journalist, and left creeped out by “serenity,” which she associated with death. But then, in the epilogue of the unauthorized Didion biography, “The Last Love Song,” when a friend asks what she wanted, what she needed, she says “Acceptance. Surrender.” She continues, “Surrender was never close to my code before. But I don’t mean giving up. I mean … giving yourself to what is.”

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