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Margaret Atwood

Everything once had a soul, even this clam, this pebble. Each had a secret name. Everything listened. Everything was real, but didn’t always love you. You needed to take care. — Margaret Atwood, from “Because We Love Bare Hills and Stunted Trees,” Poetry Ireland Review Issue 116 Advertisements

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Canadian Culture · Canadian Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Paul Vermeersch

Lost Things There are many ways to understand the word lost, my love. When you were born, the last Pyrenean ibex, a tawny female named Celia, had not yet lived to see the view from Torla overlooking Monte Perdido, but her great- grandsire stood on the cliffs of Ordesa, positioned on hoof-tips dainty as dimes,… Continue reading Paul Vermeersch

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Malcolm Gladwell

The ethics of plagiarism have turned into the narcissism of small differences: because journalism cannot own up to its heavily derivative nature, it must enforce originality on the level of the sentence. ― Malcolm Gladwell, What the Dog Saw and Other Adventures. (Little, Brown and Company; Large Print edition, October 20, 2009)

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