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My friend Bergelson kept his past in a box for fifty years. Now he’s not making new memories, he doesn’t know what year it is, and the box is where he wakes up unable to breathe. They’re very respectful here about numbers and names. Read the rest of this entry »

How I love the world in all its ripe green beauty and all the people on its skin who cheer me with their thoughtless kindness! The sun pours down like pancake syrup. The grass comes up like grass in a dream. Read the rest of this entry »

Sometimes it seems inconceivable I should be the age I am. When sunlight through the atrium bakes us in the common room like tacos under a heat lamp, I stop counting the days I do remember and consider this scene before me. Read the rest of this entry »

At 26, with the assistance of a team of psychological facilitators spending down a healthy post-doctoral research grant, he began to retrieve repressed memories of abuse he had suffered as a child Read the rest of this entry »

My mother draws her breath like a bad cartoon. No doctors can tell us what’s wrong with her, so we don’t let them see her. She was always busy living, proliferating. Read the rest of this entry »

The rabbi is on radio, telling the story every generation tells about itself. It was war, he says, and the papers didn’t reach our little town. Read the rest of this entry »

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