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Nineteen forty was also the year of Trotsky’s assassination. I was in Mexico at the time and an acquaintance of the Old Man, a European lady whom I had met in Taxco, had arranged a meeting. Trotsky agreed to receive my friend Herbert Passin and me in Coyoacán. It was on the morning of our appointment that he was struck down.
There Is Simply Too Much to Think About: Collected Nonfiction
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