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143 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
“It is as if I were walking through a gallery of unfinished wood sculptures.”Apparently, "the black people whose faces can be made out among the tree trunks have died of Aids. The skin is tightly stretched over the bones of their faces. The dead people are thin, fading away, in great pain. Nowhere is there a trace of calm or resignation."