Fall 2008
Whether an editor contributes much or little, the work is the writer’s own.
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Not a single environmentalist holds out much hope for the future.
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“I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re the same person,” she says.
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Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
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You can get anyone to sleep with you—if you want it bad enough.
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The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.
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