“Her statues resembled each other in a certain characteristic spareness, a seeming unwillingness to cover the armature and skeleton of being. Each one of her statues resembled her, unfinished, half-realized, half-comprehended images of herself, and the image of herself was in the music. A fluted line hung in air, curled inward upon itself, fell, like a piece of curled white string. It fell into shadows, silence and darkness.” -Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Her (1960)


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