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“i used to think that the sun and the moon were the same,” my stepson said. He had been told that they were different but did not believe it. He must have convinced himself that they were two sides of the same coin-gold and silver-or perhaps he thought that at night the sun faded, as if by a dimmer switch, to become the moon. At what point he had to drop this view, he did not tell me. But his poetic image deserves to survive as a metaphor for what happens to childhood convictions: again and again, the sun turns…

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