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1J4S-1J60 There was loneliness in the dark hills when the wind stirred the withered leaves on the trees. It was music to me. It was poetry. It hangs to me better than a piece ofclothing for it fits me well and will not wear out. ]ESSE STUART, BEYOND DARK HILLS It was the fall or winter of 1945-46 just after the war, and even if one had had no hand in the bloodletting, there was the sense that the world, and one's own life, would never be the same again.... [W]hat had started out for me as, perhaps, an act of escape, of fleeing back into the simplicities of childhood, had turned, as it always must ifwe accept the logic of our lives, into an attempt to bring something meaningfully out ofthat simple past into the complication ofthe present. And what had started out as a personal indulgence had tried to be, in the end, an impersonal generalization about experience, as a story must always try to be if it accepts the logic offiction. ROBERT PENN WARREN, '"BLACKBERRY WINTER': A RECOLLECTION" This page intentionally left blank ...

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