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The Heavenly Torture Of Grief, Of Winter, The Bulb Before The Tulip

It’s the time of year when the weather acts like a Philip Glass score. The body can’t get enough of the mikva of hot water, and we turn inwards. “What day is it?” one of my students asked in class last week, twirling his pencil. “The 87th of January,” another quipped back, without looking up. Read more