‘Luck came only through playing. So how could I start playing, how emerge from my refusal to play, my grey timid life? How else but by a stroke of luck that carried me with it? What game was I playing, or what game was playing me? What did I find as I played, as I renewed my search for luck? I crossed a line and found something that was searching for itself. When I got lucky I found you, the anonymous, and lost myself in you. When I got lucky luck played its game with me, without me. I got “lucky”: I was ruled by a game that didn’t know its own rules. I got “lucky”: my luck ran through my fingers… Who could distinguish between good and bad luck when the game was played in this way? Bad luck could be grace too, I supposed. Could I separate out the forms of luck, of grace? I was no Schoolman, no saint. The movement of otherness was God’s business, I could only look around and try to keep playing, keep being played.’


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