Celestial Philomath

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Each time a language dies, another flame goes out, another sound goes silent. When the whispers of Aramaic and Dama and Plains Miwok are at last drowned out by the shouts, what do we do? We should pause to mourn. But then we must tell our stories in a new tongue, so at least the stories may survive.
My Father's Paradise: A Son's Search for His Jewish Past in Kurdish Iraq
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