Concerned for the environment, she insists on taking reusable bags whenever she flies to New York to do her shopping.
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The instant S. dropped the first lobster in the pot, I knew that, except for those who love me, my own death will be of no more consequence.
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The dominant mode of the aphorism appears to be sourness: evidence of its inadequacy as a form –– if we seek in literature the sum of human experience.
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Admiring new hedgerows, young woods – the slow restoration of ‘improved’ farmland – I wonder if progress and vandalism are distinguishable only with hindsight.
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Our nostalgia for the country condemns us all to the suburbs.
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My contract with the landscapes I so value must be never to live there.
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