I borrowed Susan Sontag's I, etcetera from the library last week and, while scanning the pages of Old Complaints Revisited, I came across a pressed leaf.
The leaf isn't very pretty, and the story isn't very good (Oh Sontag, I am not worthy) so i can only assume it fell into the pages by accident.
Maybe i will use this incident to conjure an elaborate story about Laurence Royal sitting under a tree in Princeton Battlefield, the unread book remains open in his lap until a gust of wind...
but i probably wont.
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