Broadsided! The Intersection of Art and Literature |
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Book Arts Program
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The Text Featured on This BroadsideThe Vanishing Karen Brennan He said he felt as though he were slipping away. Each day, more slippage. For example, a little chunk of his foot may go, then a fingertip, a follicle of hair, a few cells from the earlobe. At first, nothing discernible to the naked eye, in other words, nothing the average person would necessarily miss in the course of events. I did not miss these things, these portions of him. He was still dear to me at that point. Eyelashes, an elbow, the shiny cavity formed by breast bone and rib cage—these went eventually. Likewise, hair. Then, on a blustery morning, the entire torso and, after soup, both legs and a hand. How can you still love me? he wailed. The wail was last to go, becoming vapor, then salt, which I used (still use) sparingly.
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