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John Leavitt is a writer and artist. He lives in New York City.
My friend, who lost her husband
twice, first in death
and then in betrayal, orders
the pinot noir.
After a friend tells me names and dreams occupy the same part of the brain, which is why we forget both.
Doubtless these findings must be published in all great journals, for they report the lair of the dragon, of the Dionysian influence. . .
On the “cruel indifference” of France’s Catholic Church.
Traversing the scarred landscapes of Jean Giono’s Provence.
On Noel Ignatiev’s radical, lifelong commitments.