This is not magical realism. It is hysterical realism. […] The conventions of realism are not being abolished but, on the contrary, exhausted, and overworked.
The red stitching across the breast pocket read Mabel, a name Maggie had not heard since her childhood. What had become of all the Mabels? She tried to picture giving a new little baby that name.
Such perhaps was the aim of Nature, who does nothing without aim, in furnishing her favorite, Man, with this his so omnipotent or rather omnipatient Talent of being Gulled.
We retain a catch of those pretty stories.
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