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18 The Curse It’s easy to fall into self-pity when you’re cramping and your pad is leaking and then (to top it off) the corpse of your least favorite uncle starts speaking. He’s lying in state on a raised platform like Vladimir Lenin a monumental human slab a horizontal expert in all things seen and unseen. Your poems used to be better, he says without lifting his head; his eyes facing the ceiling. It’s all in a sort of Vito Corleone whisper—without moving his lips. 19 And it’s just you in there alone with this colossal hulk of an omniscient dead critic. And there’s nothing you can do about it but to inquire discretely for the nearest exit. ...

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