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165 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
We all let out a thread, like silkworms. We gnaw at and fight over the white mulberry leaves, but that thread, if it crosses over with others and intertwines, can make a beautiful fabric, an unforgettable cloth.
That night, Herbal went to the governor’s office and sifted through the files until he found the transfer papers. Three schoolteachers were due to be moved the following day. The dead man told him, “Take the warrant, now the governor’s pen, and write Da Barca’s full name in the blank space. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with the handwriting.�
The political prisoners functioned as a kind of commune. People who would not talk to each other in the street, who really hated each other, such as Anarchists and Communists, helped each other out inside jail. They even edited an underground newsletter together, which was called Bungalow.
Her long, russet hair stirred by the breeze, laying threads to the doctor in the prison courtyard. Silk threads, invisible threads. Not even an accurate marksman would know how to tear them.