If your life left no records, not even the best genealogist could tell your story. But Annie Proulx can imagine it (not available at the New Yorker's web site -- the May 5 issue, at good libraries everywhere, if you've got the stomach).
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Fiction goes where fact fears to tread
Posted by Harold Henderson at 3:00 AM
Labels: Annie Proulx, New Yorker
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