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Review: The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
Candles were lit in windows. Stars spilled across the black sky. Part of you thought: Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together. The habit of moving our hands while we speak is left over from it. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field, from a girl who no longer exists. She was queen and he was king. If not you, who? A stick could be a sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. That night a freezing wind blew in. In the autumn light her hair shone like a crown. Far off, in his perch in the trees, Kafka listened to it all: Or disappearing across a field. Her hair was being pulled. I tried to write about real things. After all:
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All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen. One by one families broke off with a good night and a squeeze of the hands, suddenly grateful for the company of neighbors. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick.