As introduction, a found piece of writing (one line from each essay):
Paterian to the core, I want to burn with a hard gemlike flame; I want to live by the epiphany, not the plot, by that which reveals itself from behind the fog of everyday being—what Woolf called the moments of being behind the “cotton wool of everyday life.” If only in language. But I am never just one of those things at any given time. If voice is the vibration of white folds in the larynx, an organ made up of cartilage and muscle, stowed behind the flesh of the neck, incarcerated in epithelial cells, can it ever really be disembodied?
— Jill Talbot, Nonfiction Editor