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By the estimate of someone with whom I am acquainted in the village of Fjord, Wisconsin, possibly the stupidest thing ever written in a book was in pencil in the inch of blank space at the top of the first page of a Lydia Davis short story entitled “Old Mother and the Grouch.”
“Better not,” the marginaliaist cautioned himself in small, careful script, “show this to [wife’s name]!”
♦
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