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Julio Cortázar died in February 1984. He had become for many, as he said of his own departed heroes, Chaplin, Cocteau, Duke Ellington, Stravinsky, a person in whose death one dies a little. The writings remain, but there are questions we can no longer ask. What will he do next? How does he see his own work? What does he think of this war, that policy, this scandal, that song?
Review, 4372 words
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