How Art Makes Us Better

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On the day Leonard Cohen died, I was on a train to Naples. It was late. I watched the rain fall in soft sheets from the roof over the dripping platform, the logo of the cement works on the concrete sleepers filling up with rain between the glistening rails. The train was ancient, and half a kilometer long. Hoisting my soggy bag onto the overhead rack, I slumped in my seat, put on some headphones, and watched the parade of distant towns I’ll never…