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Fanaticism, I think, is a lot like a better version of herpes. A sometimes brief, sometimes extended but always torrid affair with someone (Stanley Kubrick, Fiona Apple) or something (Harry Potter) you love leaves you dazed and confused and infected for life long after the said someone or something is gone. Kubrick’s death leaves you wondering how much better “A.I.” would have been had he directed it; Apple takes a slow six years constructing her extraordinary (...)