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A Year in Reading: Novuyo Rosa Tshuma
This year has felt fragile and increasingly apocalyptic, with COVID-19 reconfiguring our relationships to the world and one another in traumatic ways. Starved of the everyday form of human contact, I found myself no longer fashionably “independent,” extroverted-introvert that I am, but, literally, isolated.
At the beginning of August, the United States Postal Service delivered a box of books I had shipped when I moved from Iowa City to Boston with only five books inside and thirty-seven books missing. (These were some of my most prized books, some signed by writers and friends from the USA and abroad.) USPS has not been able to recover the books or explain what happened to them, and I find myself entangled
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