Fiction | September 01, 2010

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The autumns I come to New York for the antiquarian book fair, it is my habit before breakfasting to walk from my hotel up Fifth Avenue to Seventy-second Street and then back through the park, where the people who acknowledge my “Good morning” are invariably men or women of a certain age. My own age, much to my surprise, now groups me with them, and my preoccupations with self, such as they were, have ebbed to the point where I am more interested in other people’s lives than in my own.

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