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40 Sundays at the Lepidoptera Exhibit Rows of imagoes underpin the stillness. With the invisible symmetry of the beatitudes, Boisduval’s Yellow is visibly transformed. Even the moths possess a momentary gift for epiphany: night-anointed, deathly emblems of earthly infatuation, they freight each lamp with the last weight of candle and cerement. Who can say what passion transfixes us? Or why thick ropes guard the dais of special acquisitions, where the empyrean opens itself to nothingness and a dying line of Lesser Purple Emperors receives us. ...

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