A massive book, conceived of as an essay by its author in 1890, a book by a aristocrat of another age that this lowbrow reader much admired, now rests unread on a shelf in a Baltimore City house where I once rented a room. The Golden Bough, which granted me such insight upon the capering and rites of my ebony foes as I was hunted to extinction, has now …
© 2024 Lynn Lockhart
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