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    The New YorkerAndré Aciman3/10/1419 min
    11 reads3 comments
    The New Yorker
    11 reads
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    • EZ19691 year ago

      I loved this. I think about babies. How trusting and open they are, they way they watch your face, mimic your movements. They don’t need words until we tell them they do.

    • Pegeen
      Top reader this weekReading streakScoutScribe
      1 year ago

      Achingly beautiful. This touched me in the deepest way. Powerful. Highly recommend.

    • Ruchita_Ganurkar1 year ago

      It was difficult for a child to reconcile her ready smile, her love of comedy and good fellowship with her enduring grief as a wife and a deaf person. She always cried with her friends. They all cried. But those of us who have lived with the deaf stop feeling sorry for them. Instead, one jumps quickly from pity to cruelty, like a pebble skittering on shallow water, without understanding what it means to live without sound. I seldom have been able to sit still and force myself to feel her seclusion. It was much easier to lose my temper when she wouldn’t listen, because she never listened—because part of understanding what you said seemed to involve a mixture of guesswork and intuition, where the shading of facts meant more than the facts themselves.