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We first noticed changes at the library where we thought books knew their place. Every morning the new librarian had to track down The Wanderers and return it to its shelf. Read the rest of this entry »
We can’t just weep on paper and call it Book of Tears. We can’t just stab the book and call it Rage, but certain stories are more physical fact than art. Read the rest of this entry »
Thin strips of card stock, a suicide king: bookmarks all. Metaphors for my placeholder finger, they separate the pages I have read from those I may never read. Read the rest of this entry »
The rabbi is on radio, telling the story every generation tells about itself. It was war, he says, and the papers didn’t reach our little town. Read the rest of this entry »