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60 When You Look at the Spines of Your Books for Amy Lang arrayed around the rooms you know who you are as the diver knows herself by the molecules of air and water she displaces carving her torso into form. The typefaces and shiny patinas where your fingers rubbed the titles; the classrooms, the students, the decades of civil strife; here, demonstrators still chant and march. Arguments take shape and you draft a proposal, you protest in D.C. When you look at the spines of your books you know the arduous training of the mind for clarity and compassion. You are Buddhist and Hindu, Arab and Jew forever having to learn the other, shared climate and history of human settlement, where alluvial sediment preserved the striped clay fragments of a flute, and the ethnographer recorded that everyone for five hundred miles knew the harmonies. ...

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