I had been an avid reader; a bookworm, bookaholic, librarian – call it what you will – as much as the next brainy young person, having been exposed, no, subjected, to the classics, the southern gothicists, the modernists, the post-modernists, the angry young men and more. But there I was at eighteen, an ordinary young working woman; I had life to live, real life. I had no use for men harpooning whales to death, pouring leperous distilments into other people’s ears, or Marge Piercy. The words that truly met my needs were to be found in the magazines in the waiting room. The world depicted
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