
André Alexis Reads “Houyhnhnm”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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'Zan's Neighbourhood'
When zan lost language he asked me, who is robert, my dad? I answered, the one who looked after you before me. Oh, yes, he said, but i could tell he didn't remember. And after that, we did not speak about dad. It wasn't until he stopped speaking that i understood his increasing sleekness was not a sign of good health. In fact, thinking about it now, i'm ashamed that i could have attributed the gradual protrusion of zan's ribca to anything other than decline. By the time i called doctor antony a loco vat, zan had become whatever it is you call a dying creature who was
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