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A couple of weeks ago I wrote a column about Pablo Neruda, the greatest poet who ever lived, according to Gabriel Garca Mrquez, not according to me. Mrquez has more authority on the matter, what with a canon of extremely popular published books to his name, and me with my long-ish list of Monitor page 4s. So we’ll just assume he’s right, while silently TP-ing Neruda’s soul in our minds.Anyhow, in that particular “Thinking Makes It So,” I spoke at some length of a treasure I found, of all places, in a book of Neruda’s love sonnets. It is a piece of scrap paper containing a few handwritten lines of Neruda’s poetry in pink cursive, and a couple of questions about DNA, maybe practice questions for a test.I described one of the questions previously. I didn’t mention the second, because I have no idea what the answer is and I wanted to sound smart.Today, however, I don’t mind revealing my ignorance. I’m too exhausted from learning the addresses of all my East-Coast relatives and hanging around various shipping centers.
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