I just read this article by Edwidge Danticat in The New Yorker. I'm deeply saddened to learn that her cousin Maxo died in the quake, crushed by the house Edwidge used to call home. I only know Maxo through Edwidge's Brother I'm Dying. But I feel I know him, in the same way I feel I know Edwidge. Such is the power of story. Here's the article:
Haiti, the earthquake, and my family: newyorker.com
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