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).
Showing posts with label Annie Proulx. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Annie Proulx. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Fiction goes where fact fears to tread
Posted by
Harold Henderson
at
3:00 AM
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Labels: Annie Proulx, New Yorker
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