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Every so often, from time to time, I would see Intizar Hussain around in Lahore. It might be at a literary festival, it might be at a university. He would be coming, or going, and in any case usually about to speak, or speaking, or having just spoken. There was a knowingness in his eyes, and a sense of dark humor, as though he had seen this place since well before it became Pakistan, and in all the years since, which of course he had, and that he had concluded there was nothing for it but to float through, perplexed and amused, and perhaps a bit sad, and always observing, observing, and readying his mind to put the shambles around him into words. He was a great writer, and looked it, as great writers don’t always do.