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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