Saïd Sayrafiezadeh Reads Samuel Beckett
The New Yorker: Fiction
00:00
The Left Hand Lacks Its Third Finger
"There is nothing for it but to close the eye for good and see her. Her and the rest. Unremittant in the shack. Over the stones. In the pastures. The haze. At the tomb. And back. For good and all. Be shut of it all. On to the next figment. Next figment."
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