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64 Reading a Writer Recently Dead It was an extreme way to get my attention. You might have been on my reading list, one of your books might have been hiding here, your name could have jumped from an old review. But now we’re both in for a serious moment; me, because I want to see what you have left, you, because your work is hung with crepe; it will not be added to or changed again. These pages then have a new solemnity. I open them. I hunt. I stiffen. The words are little beaky mouths, crying: “Listen to me, heed me, hold me, let this book be a bomb in your hands.” ...

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