He was a tiny but perfect human being, who had entered the world after all our traumas with the lustiest of cries. |
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He is, no question, America's lustiest eater-poet. |
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By E. B. White The New Yorker, June 15, 1929P. 11 There are moments when even the lustiest would trade all his biology for a dram of holy water, moments when the church seems like a sanctuary to which he must again turn. |
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