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Spontaneous Generation By Shikhar Dixit, illustrations by Duncan Long 5 March 2001 The pen wounds in ways the sword can only dream about. It is the sword's most fervent wish to slice with the brutal subtlety of the pen, so that its victim scarcely knows he has been struck. It was hard to look away while Laura drew. She knew how to build light and depth, shadow and meaning, all from the crumbling powder of charcoal, the quivering, spreading streak of black India ink. To watch my own face grow from a handful of curving lines and points --to watch it upside-down as I sat across from her --to see tones of reflected daylight bloom on my cheeks and that spark of soul in my pupils as she rubbed round and round with her thin black stick. . . . It was mesmeric. Upside-down, me with more life in my eyes than I could feel. Did all that emotion really belly- crawl through the creases in my skin? The first thing she ever said to me: "Did you know that black can glow?" She straddled a drawing bench beside me, her oversized sketchpad braced against its neck. To me, a single male college student, she was immediately a prospective date. I surreptitiously measured her features --the full, pale face, blond-streaked brown hair and dark-brown eyes like uncracked walnuts. Her figure leaned towards
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