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Why Marcella Hazan Is Still Teaching Us How to Cook Italian

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Why Marcella Hazan Is Still Teaching Us How to Cook Italian

In the 1980s, an assistant at Glamour took her romantic life to the next level with the aid of two lemons and a chicken. At the suggestion of one of the magazine’s editors, who was more or less following a recipe she’d found in an Italian cookbook, the assistant poked the lemons full of holes, stuffed them into the bird and loaded it into a hot oven. She ate the chicken with her boyfriend. Not long after, he proposed. Intrigued, other assistants tried the lemon-and-chicken trick on their own boyfriends. And lo, it came to pass that the halls of Condé Nast were soon glittering with the sparkle of new diamond rings.

The author of the cookbook was Marcella Hazan. If she had never done anything else in her life, Ms. Hazan would still have a guaranteed place in history as the progenitor of Engagement Chicken, a phenomenon so durable it has probably outlasted some of the marriages it was said to inspire.

Of course, Ms. Hazan did much more than that. She changed, thoroughly and irreversibly, the way Italian food is cooked, eaten and talked about in the United States. Although it has been 12 years since Ms. Hazan died, at age 89, and more than 30 since she put out a cookbook, nobody has yet overtaken her as the source Americans consult when they want to know how Italians get dinner on the table.

The new documentary “Marcella,” which opens at the Quad Cinema in Manhattan and begins streaming on May 9, ticks through a few of the things we can thank her for: Balsamic vinegar. Sun-dried tomatoes. The idea that there is no single “Italian cuisine” but many local ones, each with its own constellation of flavors.

I saw the movie in April at a screening at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History. For the occasion, the curators unwrapped 19 cooking tools the museum acquired from Ms. Hazan’s kitchen last year. On display outside the theater were her square-cornered lasagna pan, her vintage garganelli comb adapted from a weaver’s loom, a linen apron printed with grapevines in dye made from vinegar and rust, and her wooden risotto spoon, which flares at the bottom like a rowing scull. (“You must never stop stirring,” she once wrote.)

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Some of these items, along with the lined notebooks filled with recipes she wrote by hand in Italian that the museum also collected, are familiar from the photos, illustrations and endpapers of her cookbooks. One item not on view was her copper zabaglione pot, which the conservation department is getting ready to unveil next spring in an exhibition of 250 objects marking the 250th anniversary of the United States.

The Hazan trove isn’t as immense as that of Julia Child, whose kitchen has been rebuilt on the museum’s ground floor in all its cluttered glory, down to the paper-towel holder and plastic flip-top trash can. Looking at it, you can see how Ms. Child worked. Ms. Hazan’s artifacts show us something different. They are the products of her long campaign to bring the flavors of Italy to the country she adopted in 1955.

For many of the people who appear in “Marcella,” Ms. Hazan is more than a historical figure. She’s still with them.

“It sounds loopy, but Marcella’s voice is in my head as I’m cooking,” says Steven Sando, the bean merchant whose company, Rancho Gordo, sells a thin-skinned cannellini named in her honor. “And every time, she’s right.”

It doesn’t sound loopy to me. That voice — brusque, solidly accented, cured in cigarette smoke, marinated in Jack Daniels — comes to me all the time. Seeing cold pasta at a deli, I’ll hear her saying, “If I had invented pasta salads I would hide.”

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When I can’t hear her, I freeze. I’ve stood for long minutes staring at boxed pasta in the supermarket trying desperately to remember which shape Ms. Hazan insists has to be used when you’re making Sicilian sardine sauce (bucatini or perciatelli). Fairly often, when the internet is drowning in a tidal wave of “Italian sushi” or some other mutant creation, I fantasize about hiring a medium to summon her spirit.

She delivered her dictums less as personal opinions than as natural laws. “The most useful thing one can know about basil is that the less it cooks, the better it is,” she wrote, as if this were a fact as ironclad as the tendency of water to flow downhill.

Although she claimed that she had never boiled water outside a laboratory before moving to New York to join her husband, Victor, she often sounded as if she learned to trim artichokes around the time of the Renaissance in a cooking academy taught by God.

Her overwhelming conviction that hers was the right way was daunting enough to the students of the cooking classes she began teaching in her Manhattan apartment in 1969. When she trained that confidence on the entire population of the United States, which included a fair number of Italians, the result was a small revolution.

Americans already thought they were in love with Italian food in 1973 when Ms. Hazan’s first book, “The Classic Italian Cookbook,” came out. What they were in love with was, in fact, the product of a mass migration of Italians who, more often than not, came from Campania, Sicily and other Southern regions. Many were fleeing the desperate rural poverty of tenant farms run under almost feudal conditions. Others were tradespeople with no formal education. Their marinaras, meatballs and lasagnas had evolved in their new country, but the roots were southern.

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This world was not the Hazans’. Both Victor and Marcella were well-off northerners, from Romagna. Victor’s mother and father were Sephardic Jews who owned fur stores. When they left Italy, they were escaping, not poverty, but fascist antisemitism. Marcella’s parents were landowners whose tenant farmers paid a share of their earnings and brought them traditional tributes of chickens and rabbits when major holidays came around. Marcella was sent to universities in Padua and Ferrara, where she earned two doctorates in natural sciences.

Most of the recipes in “The Classic Italian Cookbook” were Northern Italian, too: roast lamb with juniper berries from Lombardy, Bolognese ragù with milk and nutmeg; minestrone in the style of Emilia-Romagna. She jotted them down in Italian, the only language she spoke when she moved to New York. Victor, her uncredited ghost writer, translated theminto English along with introductions stating his wife’s rigorous views on seasonality and simplicity. The style the couple hit on was stately, controlled, literary, erudite. It made allusions to Picasso and Aristotle. Above all, it was suffused with a belief that Italian cuisine was one of civilization’s great achievements.

“Nothing significant exists under Italy’s sun that is not touched by art,” that first book proclaims. “Its food is twice blessed because it is the product of two arts, the art of cooking and the art of eating.”

This was not the kind of message Americans were accustomed to hearing when they sat down to eat spaghetti by the flame of a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle while Dean Martin compared the moon in your eye to a big pizza pie. But by 1973, Italy’s image abroad had changed. It was now a beacon of style and the arts, the land of Fellini and Antonioni, Pucci and Valentino, Ferrari and Alfa Romeo. So when the Hazans came along selling the idea that Italy had also figured out a few things about good food that added up to a collective body of knowledge — in other words, culture — readers were ready to pay attention.

After her first cookbook, Ms. Hazan began collecting recipes around Italy, and she gave the food of the south its due. But she never warmed up to Italian American food, sniffing at its limp pasta, overcooked tomato sauces and heavy hand with garlic. Readers who were devoted to chicken scarpariello would come to see it and dishes like it as weird, bastardized aberrations. That is one of her legacies, too, for better or worse. When Carbone charges $94 for veal parm, some people seem to think it’s a scam. When Nello, a Northern Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, charges $89 for veal Milanese, they just say it’s expensive.

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It’s hard to imagine a recipe writer today changing the way a whole country thinks as thoroughly as Ms. Hazan did. Book contracts go to influencers whose advances are determined by their number of followers. Ms. Hazan didn’t have followers. She had disciples.

She still does. Peter Miller, who directed, produced and wrote “Marcella,” said almost all of the money for the film came from donations from hundreds of her fans.

“Everybody who gave money gave money because they love Marcella,” Mr. Miller said. “It’s not a sensible way to fund a film and it took a really long time, but I ended up building this whole network of people who knew her.”

The contributions were more than financial. Donors shared memories and photographs of Ms. Hazan that made their way into the documentary. One suggested Mr. Miller talk to Shola Olunloyo, a Nigerian-born chef in Philadelphia whose first non-African cookbook was one of Ms. Hazan’s. From it, he learned Bolognese her way, and has been making it about, once a week for two decades.

In another scene, the New York chef April Bloomfield cooks Ms. Hazan’s radically easy recipe for tomato sauce that bubbles away with butter and an onion that you fish out at the end, like a bay leaf. After tasting it, Ms. Bloomfield looks up toward the sky.

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“Marcella, I hope you’re happy,” she says. “I hope I did a good job.”

If you own one of Ms. Hazan’s cookbooks, you know the feeling.

Culture

6 Poems You Should Know by Heart

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6 Poems You Should Know by Heart

Literature

‘Prayer’ (1985) by Galway Kinnell

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Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

Galway Kinnell in 1970. Photo by LaVerne Harrell Clark, © 1970 Arizona Board of Regents. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center

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“I typically say Kinnell’s words at the start of my day, as I’m pedaling a traffic-laden path to my office,” says Major Jackson, 57, the author of six books of poetry, including “Razzle Dazzle” (2023). “The poem encourages a calm acceptance of the day’s events but also wants us to embrace the misapprehension and oblivion of life, to avoid probing too deeply for answers to inscrutable questions. I admire what Kinnell does with only 14 words; the repetition of ‘what,’ ‘that’ and ‘is’ would seem to limit the poem’s sentiment but, paradoxically, the poem opens widely to contain all manner of human experience. The three ‘is’es in the middle line give it a symmetry that makes its message feel part of a natural order, and even more convincing. Thanks to the skillful punctuation, pauses and staccato rhythm, a tonal quality of interior reflection emerges. Much like a haiku, it continues after its last words, lingering like the last note played on a piano that slowly fades.”

“Just as I was entering young adulthood, probably slow to claim romantic feelings, a girlfriend copied out a poem by Pablo Neruda and slipped it into an envelope with red lipstick kisses all over it. In turn, I recited this poem. It took me the remainder of that winter to memorize its lines,” says Jackson. “The poem captures the pitch of longing that defines love at its most intense. The speaker in Shakespeare’s most famous sonnet believes the poem creates the beloved, ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’ (Sonnet 18). In Rilke’s expressive declarations of yearning, the beloved remains elusive. Wherever the speaker looks or travels, she marks his world by her absence. I find this deeply moving.”

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Lucille Clifton in 1995. Afro American Newspapers/Gado/Getty Images

“Clifton faced many obstacles, including cancer, a kidney transplant and the loss of her husband and two of her children. Through it all, she crafted a long career as a pre-eminent American poet,” says Jackson. “Her poem ‘won’t you celebrate with me’ is a war cry, an invitation to share in her victories against life’s persistent challenges. The poem is meaningful to all who have had to stare down death in a hospital or had to bereave the passing of close relations. But, even for those who have yet to mourn life’s vicissitudes, the poem is instructive in cultivating resilience and a persevering attitude. I keep coming back to the image of the speaker’s hands and the spirit of steadying oneself in the face of unspeakable storms. She asks in a perfectly attuned gorgeously metrical line, ‘what did i see to be except myself?’”

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‘Sonnet 94’ (1609) by William Shakespeare

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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“It’s one of the moments of Western consciousness,” says Frederick Seidel, 90, the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, including “So What” (2024). “Shakespeare knows and says what he knows.”

“It trombones magnificent, unbearable sorrow,” says Seidel.

“It’s smartass and bitter and bright,” says Seidel.

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These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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Classic and Contemporary Literature From France, Japan, India, the U.K. and Brazil

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Classic and Contemporary Literature From France, Japan, India, the U.K. and Brazil

Literature

FRANCE

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According to the writer Leïla Slimani, 44, the author of ‘The Country of Others’ (2020).

Classic

‘Essais de Montaigne’ (‘Essays of Montaigne,’ 1580)

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“France is a country of nuance with a love of conversation and freedom and an aversion to fanaticism. It’s also a country built on reflexive subjectivity. Montaigne reveals all that, writing, ‘I am myself the matter of my book.’”

Contemporary

‘La Carte et le Territoire’ (‘The Map and the Territory,’ 2010) by Michel Houellebecq

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“Houellebecq describes France as a museum, where landscape turns into décor and where rural areas are emptying out. He shows the gap between the Parisian elite and the rest of the population, which he paints as aging and disoriented by modernity. It’s a melancholic and yet ironic novel about a disenchanted nation.”

JAPAN

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According to the writer Yoko Ogawa, 64, the author of ‘The Memory Police’ (1994).

Classic

‘Man’yoshu’ (late eighth century)

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“‘Man’yoshu,’ the oldest extant collection of Japanese poetry, reflects a diversity of voices — from emperors to commoners. They bow their heads to the majesty of nature, weep at the loss of loved ones and find pathos in death. The pages pulse with the vitality of successive generations.”

Contemporary

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‘Tenohira no Shosetsu’ (‘Palm-of-the-Hand Stories,’ 1923-72) by Yasunari Kawabata

“The essence of Japanese literature might lie in brevity: waka [a classical 31-syllable poetry form], haiku and short stories. There’s a tradition of cherishing words that seem to well up from the depths of the heart, imbued with warmth. Kawabata, too, exudes more charm in his short stories — especially these very short ‘palm-of-the-hand’ stories — than in his full-length novels. Good and evil, beauty and ugliness, love and hate — everything is contained in these modest worlds.”

INDIA

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According to Aatish Taseer, 45, a T contributing writer and the author of ‘Stranger to History: A Son’s Journey Through Islamic Lands’ (2009).

Classic

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‘The Kumarasambhava’ (‘The Birth of Kumara,’ circa fifth century) by Kalidasa

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“This is an epic poem by the greatest of the classical Sanskrit poets and dramatists. The gods are in a pickle. They’re being tormented by a monster, but Shiva, their natural protector, is deep in meditation and cannot be disturbed. Kama, the god of love, armed with his flower bow, is sent down from the heavens to waken Shiva. Never a wise idea! The great god, in his fury, opens his third eye and incinerates Kama. But then, paradoxically, the death of the god of love engenders one of the greatest love stories ever told. In the final canto, Shiva and his wife, the goddess Parvati, have the most electrifying sex for days on end — and, 15 centuries on, in our now censorious time, it still leaves one agog at the sensual wonder that was India.”

Contemporary

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‘The Complex’ (2026) by Karan Mahajan

“This state-of-the-nation novel, which was published just last month, captures the squalor and malice of Indian family life. Delhi is both my and Mahajan’s hometown and, in this sprawling homage to India’s capital, we see it on the eve of the economic liberalization of the 1990s, as the old socialist city gives way to a megalopolis of ambition, greed and political cynicism.”

THE UNITED KINGDOM

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According to the writer Tessa Hadley, 70, the author of ‘The London Train’ (2011).

Classic

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‘Jane Eyre’ (1847) by Charlotte Brontë

“Written almost 200 years ago, it remains an insight into our collective soul — or at least its female part. Somewhere at the heart of us there’s a small girl in a wintry room, curled up in the window seat with a book, watching the lashing rain on the window glass: ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. …’ Jane’s solemnity, her outraged sense of justice, her trials to come, the wild weather outside, her longing for something better, for love in her future: All this speaks, perhaps problematically, to something buried in the foundations of our idea of ourselves.”

Contemporary

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‘All That Man Is’ (2016) by David Szalay

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“Though he isn’t quite completely British (he’s part Canadian, part Hungarian), Szalay is brilliant at catching certain aspects of British men — aspects that haven’t been written about for a while, now updated for a new era. Funny, exquisitely observed and terrifying, this novel reminds us, too, how absolutely our fate and our identity as a nation belong with the rest of Europe.”

BRAZIL

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According to the writer and critic Noemi Jaffe, 64, the author of ‘What Are the Blind Men Dreaming?’ (2016).

Classic

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‘Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas’ (‘The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas,’ 1881) by Machado de Assis

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“Not only is it experimental in style — very short chapters mixed with long ones; different points of view; narrated by a corpse; metalinguistic — but it also introduces an extremely ironic view of the rising bourgeoisie in Rio de Janeiro at the time, revealing the hypocrisy of slave owners, the falsehood of love affairs and the only true reason for all social relationships: convenience and personal interest. After almost 150 years, it’s still modern, both formally and, unfortunately, also in content.”

Contemporary

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‘Onde Pastam os Minotauros’ (‘Where Minotaurs Graze,’ 2023) by Joca Reiners Terron

“The two main characters — Cão and Crente — along with some of their colleagues, plan to escape and set fire to the slaughterhouse where they work under exploitative conditions. The men develop sympathy for the animals they kill, and one of them becomes a sort of philosopher, revealing the sheer nonsense of existence and the injustices of society in the deepest parts of Brazil.”

These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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6 Myths That Endure

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6 Myths That Endure

Literature

The Myth of Meeting Oneself

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“This is evident in Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’ (circa 30-19 B.C.) when Aeneas witnesses his own heroic actions depicted in murals of the Trojan War in Juno’s temple, and again in Miguel de Cervantes’s ‘Don Quixote’ (1605-15) when Quixote enters a printer’s shop and finds a book that has been published with fake details about his quest even as he’s living it,” says Ben Okri, 67, the author of “The Famished Road” (1991) and “Madame Sosostris and the Festival for the Brokenhearted” (2025). “In both stories, individuals throw themselves into the world and think they encounter objects, personae, obstacles and antagonists, but what they actually encounter is themselves. In our time, where our actions meet us in the echo chamber of social media, the process is magnified and swifter. Now a deed doesn’t even have to take place for it to enter the realm of reality.”

The Myth of Utopia

“I’ve always had trouble with the idea of utopia, feeling it derives its energy more from what it wishes to dismantle than what it wishes to enact,” says the T writer at large Aatish Taseer, 45, the author of “Stranger to History: A Son’s Journey Through Islamic Lands” (2009). “Ram Rajya, or the mythical rule of the hero Ram in the Hindu epic ‘Ramayana’ (seventh century B.C.-third century A.D.), like all visions of perfection, contains a built-in violence.”

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The Myth of Invisibility

“Invisibility bears power and powerlessness at the same time,” says Okri. “In ancient cultures, it was a gift of the gods. Jesus, for example, walks unrecognized among his disciples, and in Greek myths, Scandinavian legends and ancient African tales, heroes are gifted invisibility in the form of cloaks, sandals or spells. Modern works like the two ‘Invisible Man’ novels, by H.G. Wells (1897) and Ralph Ellison (1952), and the ‘Harry Potter’ novels (1997-2007) by J.K. Rowling reach back to those ideas. But today, people talk about visibility as the highest form of social agency, while invisibility can render a whole class, race, caste or gender unseen.”

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The Myth of Steadiness vs. Speed

Charles Henry Bennett’s illustration “The Hare and the Tortoise” (1857). Alamy

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“‘The Tortoise and the Hare,’ one of Aesop’s fables (sixth century B.C.), doesn’t necessarily strike a younger person as promising — possibly it has a whiff of morality in it,” says Yiyun Li, 53, the author of “A Thousand Years of Good Prayers” (2005) and “Dear Friend, From My Life I Write to You in Your Life” (2017). “But the longer I live and work, the more I understand that it’s the tortoiseness in a person that carries one along, not the swiftness of the mind and body of the hare.”

The Myth of Magic

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William Etty’s “The Sirens and Ulysses” (1837). Bridgeman Images

“Ancient magical tales like Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ (late eighth to early seventh century B.C.) were allegories of transformation, of secret teachings,” says Okri, “whereas modern forms of magic are narrative devices and tropes of storytelling that continue the child’s wonder of life. I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’ (1925), Gabriel García Márquez’s ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ (1967) and, again, the ‘Harry Potter’ books. The intuition of magic persists even in these atheistic and science-infested times, where nothing is to be believed if it can’t be subjected to analysis. This is perhaps because the ultimate magic confronts us every day in the mystery of consciousness. That we can see anything is magical; that we experience love is magical; and perhaps the most magical thing of all is the imagination’s unending power to alter the contents and coordinates of reality. It hides tenaciously in the act of reading, which is the most generative act of magic.”

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The Myth of the Immortal Soul

“ ‘The soul is birthless and eternal, imperishable and timeless and is not destroyed when the body is destroyed,’ says Krishna in the ‘Bhagavad Gita’ (second century-first century B.C.). This belief in the immortality of the soul — what used to be called Pythagoreanism in ancient Greece — is still the most pervasive myth in India,” says Taseer, “and has more influence over behavior and how one lives one’s life than any other.”

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These interviews have been edited and condensed.

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