episode eighty-seven / TINY SOUNDS, BUT SOUNDS . . . OPEN DARK DITCHES IN THE FACE / i was encouraged to think that the book about Lenin's embalmers i bought would be a lot funnier than it is; it's mainly sad with a dash of grim absurdity; ah, well / i can - unsurprisingly - recommend Le Guin's The Word For World Is Forest from title on down though; which isn't to say that too isn't sad, y'know but, well, i guess it's the consolations of fiction, right?
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