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37 hoMage to tU fU Tu Fu, sage and master, I’m told you wrote ten thousand poems, of which some fifteen hundred, give or take a few, survive, the others lost, misplaced, abandoned—easy to lose track as the poems pile up. It’s autumn here, in a dry season, too early in the day for a cup of wine and I haven’t a thought in my head, let alone a line of verse. Tu Fu, old chatterbox of delight, to indolence must I now add envy? ...

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