Trying to mend what time and nerves had worn threadbare, I turn to you in the thick air of the moving car to mention that the Eskimos have no word for war. You are quiet for a while; the layer of silence settling over what I said. I think of snowdrifts, and remember that this is a tropical country, that only the heaviest things take shape and remain. You keep your eyes on the road when you say — “They’re called Inuits, not Eskimos.”

(where I learned this)

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