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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O Fatima if only you would lean my way my heart would quiver.
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Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
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Our girls are the slow, sickly, fast, and troublemaking ones.
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How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
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