Mystified and weirdly charmed to find that my 1968 copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem — a book then in its thirteenth printing — could contain “the pepole we used to be.” Great sentences, even with a typo: “… I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the pepole we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.” Joan Didion, pepole. Joan Didion.


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