Saturday, September 17, 2016

Found Epigram

From time to time, we’ve posted (shaped) fragments of prose, that could well be taken as verse:  the genre of found poetry.
Now here, from the pen of Amy Davidson in the current New Yorker, a patch of reportage that would do honor to a novel.   Re Hillary Clinton being grilled for the nth or rather n+1st time, on some largely artificial scandal or other, nurtured by her foes:

Her expression was one of hard bemusement, as though she were watching someone struggle with a math problem  she had long since worked out.

(Such nuggets are not rare in The New Yorker;  we reproduce this one  just because of the math angle.)

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