“…it was through Joyce that I learned to see something in language that carried a radiance, something that made me feel the beauty and fervor of words“…it was through Joyce that I learned to see something in language that carried a radiance, something that made me feel the beauty and fervor of words, the sense that a word has a life and a history.” Don Delillo writes and successfully lays this down in this work.
Also I do see an example of what he writes of in his essay The Power of History,” which appeared in The New York Times Magazine @ http://www.nytimes.com/library/books/... “The novel is the dream release, the suspension of reality that history needs to escape its own brutal confinements.” And “Fiction does not obey reality even in the most spare and semidocumentary work.” And “Language can be a form of counterhistory. The writer wants to construct a language that will be the book’s life-giving force. He wants to submit to it. Let language shape the world. Let it break the faith of conventional re-creation.
Language lives in everything it touches and can be an agent of redemption, the thing that delivers us, paradoxically, from history’s flat, thin, tight and relentless designs, its arrangement of stark pages, and that allows us to find an unconstraining otherness, a free veer from time and place and fate.”
And “Fiction is all about reliving things. It is our second chance.”
With this novel he does puts forward another kind of reliving things in the form of convergence, in zero k, in a new form. What may be, what could be, what would one believe.
In a recent interview he mentions of Zero K : “I think the key of the cryogenic aspect of the novel is that here in this facility, there is an area called “Zero K” in which people volunteer to undergo the cryogenic process even though they are nowhere near dying. This is the essence of the novel, in a way. It’s voluntary and, to my knowledge, there is nothing like this in three-dimensional reality.” And also he mentions “Sinclair Lewis called for “a literature worthy of our vastness.” A novelist tends to feel this spread and breadth in his fingertips (or not) and I’ve tried to bring a sense of our strange and dangerous times into my work.” – See more at: https://pen.org/transcript-interview/...
Indeed he does so this in this novel.
The sum of all fears contained within the sum of all strangeness Almost like trip through a twilight zone episode. This is classic Delillo work the sum of all works, a splendour, disarming, haunting, stark, insightful and satirical at times. A novel within a novel, always deep he writes, with great masterful sentencing, and language. He seduces you in with his first person narrative of Jeffery.
He has his character try to find himself yet again in fiction, in his reality and another possible world, he has the reader and the character in the narrative self reflective and envisioning a new world a better world against all the dysfunction, the strange, the bad. With sensory overload he has the character see with a different eye at words and things and silence. He wishes his characters to find themselves once more after visiting the convergence the labyrinthine strangeness of the place and the great promises of a longer life and better life and so the main protagonist Jeffrey retiring back to his reality and the the reality of violence of the world, trying to find another self and realisation.
The main protagonist Jeffrey had first appeared in a short story published in February 2016 in the New Yorker @ http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/201... In that story its him and his dysfunctional family, his relationship with his hardly present rich and powerful father, and his mother that searches for love and of whom he tries to understand. There is no mention of zero k and the efforts of his father to have his stepmother, one that he finds a newfound care for, Frozen temporarily, life put on hold for a time till his reuniting at a later stage in a better form, same identity, but new healthier form, free from the violence and chaos of the modern and future days of Jeffery’s. This short story appears in part of the zero k. With this work you are in the careful hands of Deliilo with his craftsmanship, his sentences, his narrators minds eye talking away, and having the reader glued to sentence upon sentence and hanging or stopped at the end of the line of words. The master craftsman of tales of disaster, death, money, technology, surreal and real, the great sports of life and arts, the functional and the dysfunctional, the underdog, and the powerful.
Excerpts “These’s a special unit. Zero K. It’s predicated on the subject’s willingness to make a certain kind of transition to the next level.” “In other words they help you die. But in this case, your case, the individual is nowhere near the end.”
"Artis, his wife, was suffering from several disabling illnesses. I knew that multiple sclerosis was largely responsible for her deterioration. My father was here as devoted witness to her passing and then as educated observer of whatever initial methods would allow preservation of the body until the year, the decade, the day when it might safely be permitted to reawaken. And Artis now in this barely believable place, this desert apparition, soon to be preserved, a glacial body in a massive burial chamber. And after that a future beyond imagining. Consider the words alone. Time, fate, chance, immortality. And here is my simpleminded past, my dimpled history, the moments I can’t help summoning because they’re mine, impossible not to see and feel, crawling out of every wall around me."
"What’s happening in this community is not just a creation of medical science. There are social theorists involved, and biologists, and futurists, and geneticists, and climatologists, and neuroscientists, and psychologists, and ethicists, if that’s the right word."
“I’m aware that when we see something, we are getting only a measure of information, a sense, an inkling of what is really there to see. I don’t know the details or the terminology but I do know that the optic nerve is not telling the full truth. We’re seeing only intimations. The rest is our invention, our way of reconstructing what is actual, if there is any such thing, philosophically, that we can call actual. I know that research is being done here, somewhere in this complex, on future models of human vision. Experiments using robots, lab animals, who knows, people like me.”
“To some extent we are here in this location to design a response to whatever eventual calamity may strike the planet. Are we simulating the end in order to study it, possibly to survive it? Are we adjusting the future, moving it into our immediate time frame? At some point in the future, death will become unacceptable even as the life of the planet becomes more fragile.”... ...“We are here to learn the power of solitude. We are here to reconsider everything about life’s end. And we will emerge in cyberhuman form into a universe that will speak to us in a very different way.”... ..“Solitude, yes. Think of being alone and frozen in the crypt, the capsule. Will new technologies allow the brain to function at the level of identity? This is what you may have to confront. The conscious mind. Solitude in extremis. Alone. Think of the word itself. Middle English. All one. You cast off the person. The person is the mask, the created character in the medley of dramas that constitute your life. The mask drops away and the person becomes you in its truest meaning. All one. The self. What is the self? Everything you are, without others, without friends or strangers or lovers or children or streets to walk or food to eat or mirrors in which to see yourself. But are you anyone without others?”
“And are they who they were before they entered the chamber?” “We will colonize their bodies with nanobots.” “Refresh their organs, regenerate their systems.” “Embryonic stem cells.” “Enzymes, proteins, nucleotides.” “Nano-units implanted in the suitable receptors of the brain. Russian novels, the films of Bergman, Kubrick, Kurosawa, Tarkovsky. Classic works of art. Children reciting nursery rhymes in many languages. The propositions of Wittgenstein, an audiotext of logic and philosophy. Family photographs and videos, the pornography of your choice. In the capsule you dream of old lovers and listen to Bach, to Billie Holiday. You study the intertwined structures of music and mathematics. You reread the plays of Ibsen, revisit the rivers and streams of sentences in Hemingway.”
"I listened to him speak about the hundreds of millions of people into the future billions who are struggling to find something to eat not once or twice a day but all day every day. He spoke in detail about food systems, weather systems, the loss of forests, the spread of drought, the massive die-offs of birds and ocean life, the levels of carbon dioxide, the lack of drinking water, the waves of virus that envelop broad geographies. ....Then there was biological warfare with its variant forms of mass extinction. Toxins, agents, replicating entities. And the refugees everywhere, victims of war in great numbers, living in makeshift shelters, unable to return to their crushed cities and towns, dying at sea when their rescue vessels capsize."
“You sit alone in a quiet room at home and you listen carefully. What is it you hear? Not traffic in the street, not voices or rain or someone’s radio,” he said. “You hear something but what? It’s not room tone or ambient sound. It’s something that may change as your listening deepens, second after second, and the sound is growing louder now—not louder but somehow wider, sustaining itself, encircling itself. What is it? The mind, the life itself, your life? Or is it the world, not the material mass, land and sea, but what inhabits the world, the flood of human existence. The world hum. Do you hear it, yourself, ever?”
“People getting older become more fond of objects. I think this is true. Particular things. A leather-bound book, a piece of furniture, a photograph, a painting, the frame that holds the painting. These things make the past seem permanent. A baseball signed by a famous player, long dead. A simple coffee mug. Things we trust. They tell an important story. A person’s life, all those who entered and left, there’s a depth, a richness. We used to sit in a certain room, often, the room with the monochrome paintings. She and I. The room in the townhouse with those five paintings and the tickets we saved and framed, like a couple of teenage tourists, two tickets to a bullfight in Madrid. She was already in poor condition. We didn’t say much. Just sat there remembering.”
The story concept the whole Ray Bradbury vein of things I liked that and the main female protagonist Harper, the length the stuff that doesn't need toThe story concept the whole Ray Bradbury vein of things I liked that and the main female protagonist Harper, the length the stuff that doesn't need to be there I didn't and just couldn't stick it out too long....more
One mans journey to make a difference, to be down in the trenches, toe to toe, and guide students to a better hope, a better dream, through education.One mans journey to make a difference, to be down in the trenches, toe to toe, and guide students to a better hope, a better dream, through education. Teaching in a school that almost kids have been left behind, forgotten, given up on. He persists to try to breakthrough the levels of dialogue and try to break into the many character shells the inner city students have put up, trying to instilling love for learning. Inspiring tale of the battle of the school room, every student described in a way that the reader has a great sense of their turbulent lives in the street and at home, the hearts at conflict with themselves, ones of today. The future, the next generation, something so important, and an eye into how things are failing and how students are falling into the cracks from their home battles, to battle within the schools with race and gender equality. Written in very readable and easy layered out sentences, non-fiction reading like fiction with very real characters, memorable in the readers mind, a joy to read. review @ http://more2read.com/review/battle-room-314-ed-boland/...more
A symbolic splendid tale of adventure, enduring fortitude, and love. A tale of freedom from shackles of slavery. Two souls, we are immersed into their A symbolic splendid tale of adventure, enduring fortitude, and love. A tale of freedom from shackles of slavery. Two souls, we are immersed into their lives, the man Jonah and the woman Angel. Angel's first person narrative is vivid with a keen sense of a life for one of love and freedom. Angel a woman at times naive of, and caught in, the injustices and abuses towards her beauty and great love. She is one great and memorable character to step foot into a sentence of a story. The narrative of the Jonah is told in the third person, a man who was able to read, among many in his situation who could not, punished for this ability due to his honesty in keeping a promise. With accusations against him a journey to freedom had been initiated. His road to freedom had been fuelled for a time by many elements, but ultimately will love conquer all with the windstorm of obstacles in their paths. Simplicity of prose layered out in linear fashion. Vividly brutal at times with some scenes involving torture and one that serves as suitable reading for adults only. The dark road these characters had to face in the pursuit of happiness is something mankind must never forget and stills remains upon the earth. The road of Jonah and Angel will be hard to be forgotten due to the success of this author in forging their plight in the evil that men do in smithy of readers heart and mind. I cannot fault the tale he told with the right sentencing and momentum and one that you just hate to close the book on. Faulkner like in characters, without the complexity of prose, Flannery O'Connor like in theme, Jack London like in simplicity of storytelling and Robert Morgan like in memorability.
The book starts with a Novella length tale. The title of this tale and the collection taken from a poem by Wallace Stevens, 'Thirteen Ways of LookingThe book starts with a Novella length tale. The title of this tale and the collection taken from a poem by Wallace Stevens, 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,' of which appears in this story in its totality at the beginning of each chapter. The chapters of the story coincide with the same number as that of the poems particular numbered segments. The chapters alternate between one that follows the viewpoint of a detective trying to piece thought footage from video surveillance and eyewitness statements, and the other from the first person narrative of the main protagonist. The main hook in the narrative is the mystery behind a death in real time, a need to find out as the tales comes to a close with the death, of that of how and why? Manslaughter, murder, or an accident on a snowy day? This was a mystery with literal prose, poetic at times with great telling and voice. This whole book will have you wanting a re-read due to the amount it covers in a small canvas with carefully placed words and great characters.
The last story in this work, 'The Treaty,' is a memorable potent piece. A woman tries to forget and at the same time has to confront the days past, ones of a harrowing ordeal. As she learns of his resurfacing in a new clothing, new identity, she wants to confront him, challenge his place in the world with what he had done. She was trying to find her peace, a sister in catholic realm, she must leave her sanctuary to have closure. The heart at conflict with itself with great prose style, the short declarative sentences leave you no words wasted no feeling undermined with something in mind for the soul and the mind.
Bones will speak, the marshes will speak, relics of the past, legends and mystical things, all things will go arie . A mystery of the caliber that youBones will speak, the marshes will speak, relics of the past, legends and mystical things, all things will go arie . A mystery of the caliber that you would expect penned by the duo Child and Preston with the main protagonist, the very unique FBI special agent, Pendergast centre stage of a gothic landscape and a gothic mystery tale in all the sense of the word. Something that started as a simple case of a mystery behind a stolen expensive wine, losses all its simplicity with mysterious goings on, "something else going on in the town of Exmouth, something dark, strange, beyond ratiocination," with things from past, including: covens, a disappearing ship, ancient carvings, and a lighthouse. There is plenty to keep you reading. The story reads with great pace, visceral and with fine details and at the same time easy reading prose, not laden with too much cerebral stalling in the pace. The authors have dealt an exquisite meal to savour and the wine taste will stay long after the dessert in your mouth to mull over.
“Mutai is a Kenyan, a Kalenjin, and a Kipsigis. He was born in the village of Equator, which sits at nearly 9,000 feet in the lush highlands at the we“Mutai is a Kenyan, a Kalenjin, and a Kipsigis. He was born in the village of Equator, which sits at nearly 9,000 feet in the lush highlands at the western escarpment of the Rift Valley, and, as its name suggests, at the belt-line of the world. He is a husband, a father, a son, a grandson, a nephew, a cousin, a coach, a businessman, and a potentate. He is a rich man who grew up without shoes.”
A retelling of the marathon, from its roots of origin, to how it exists today. You will read of the history of how it has found its way to cities like Boston, New York, and London. He has put before the reader facts, true lives he accounts on, and one great runner he expounds on right from his youth to his most recent achievements. The author successful puts in the readers mind a story behind the face, the winner, the elite athlete, Geoffrey Mutai, his life, his struggle, and the whole human drama and journey the marathon incorporates.
The telling, the facts, read well, and the author handles them with style and presents to the read a work that is insightful, easy reading, and a joy to read at the same time. This tale would appeal to the athlete, the casual jogger, and to the reader that is just curious of what the marathon is about.
“Why does it matter whether the sub-two-hour marathon is possible? And if it is possible, what will it mean when the first 1:59:59 marathon is run? At one level, the achievement will signify nothing. To complete 26 miles and 385 yards in less than two hours using only one’s God-given gifts would be, of course, an exceptional feat of speed, mental strength, and endurance. But the marathon length is a scruffy figure, only fixed by the Olympic Committee in 1921 to match the course of the 1908 London Olympic marathon, which was itself designed to accommodate the peculiar viewing demands of the British royal family. Why should we care if some extraordinary person can run this arbitrary distance in just over, or just under, two hours? For curious reasons, we do care and it does matter. Twenty-six miles and 385 yards is not just a distance. It has become a metaphor. Nobody finds the marathon easy—even professionals, especially professionals. The distance is democratic that way. Everyone who runs a marathon is running against his or her limits. Everyone is forced to manage a certain amount of pain and to recruit hidden reserves. Whatever one’s talent or preparation, nobody runs an easy marathon. Geoffrey Mutai’s prayer at the startline is not to win the race, but to finish it. On the other side of the coin, the marathon is also a race that is possible for almost anyone with enough patience and willpower to complete. The distance is democratic that way, too. For this reason, it has become an event against which hordes of everyday people—fat people, thin people; people crooked by time and people sprightly as foals; rich people and people in need—test themselves. I’m running against cancer. I’m running for my dad. I’m running for a personal best. As Chris Brasher, cofounder of the London Marathon, once said, the race has become “the great suburban Everest.” Now, in the popular imagination, the marathon is not primarily a test of athletic talent, but a test of character. The race has become a carnival of men and women, some in outrageous costumes, each attempting to overcome a personal hurdle for the public good, or a public hurdle for a personal good. A British man named Lloyd Scott is perhaps the most extreme of these charitable masochists. Among other stunts, he has completed both the New York and London marathons in an antiquated deep-sea diving suit weighing 130 pounds, and has raised nearly £5 million for charity in the past decade. When he received the MBE (Member of the British Empire) honor from the Queen for his fund-raising feats, he said that it should stand for “Mad, Bonkers, and Eccentric.”
“In these final moments of stillness, however, Mutai banished impure thoughts and the crowding, conflicted voices. He attempted to focus. Psychologists talk about a Zen-like state of instinctual action in which the greatest sporting performances are attained. They call it Flow. The French cyclist Jean Bobet described a similar but distinct experience called La Volupté, which “is delicate, intimate and ephemeral. It arrives, it takes hold of you, sweeps you up and then leaves you again. It is for you alone. It is a combination of speed and ease, force and grace. It is pure happiness.” Mutai has his own term: the Spirit. The way he understood it, the brutality of his training regime—125 fierce miles a week—was endured to attain this sensation. Thousands of hours of suffering for these minutes of sweetness: speed and ease, force and grace. The more harder you train, he would say, the more you get the Spirit. . . . It gains on you. So far, in his career, the Spirit had allowed Mutai the courage to remake the sport of marathon running, and to destroy previous conceptions of what was possible; to lose his own fear, and implant it in the hearts of his competitors.”
“In Boston, Mutai picked as never before. On the cold morning of April 18, 2011, with a breeze at his back, he beat his countryman Moses Mosop in a thrilling race, and finished in a time of 2:03:02-a course record by nearly three minutes, and almost one minute faster than Haile Gebreselassie’s world record of 2:03:59. Mosop finished four seconds behind Mutai, in 2:03:06. These were absurd, freakish times. Despite its length, the professional marathon is a sport of tiny margins—a few seconds here, a few seconds there. Nobody in the modern era had broken a course record at a major marathon by nearly three minutes before Mutai. Looking on, the American marathon great, Bill Rodgers, who was himself a four-time winner of the Boston Marathon, thought the clocks were broken. “It was something incredible,” said Rodgers. “I ran with a tailwind in Boston one day, and I ran 2:09:55. He ran more than six minutes faster!” The clocks were working. However, Mutai’s run would not stand as an official world record. It is one of many bizarre quirks of the sport of professional road running that, despite being the oldest continuously contested marathon in the world, Boston does not count for world record purposes.”
“It was not a brick wall. On May 6, 1954, despite dire prognostications from armchair pundits, some of whom believed a human would die if he attempted to run a mile in under four minutes, a junior doctor named Roger Bannister ran 3:59:4 for the mile at the Iffley Road running track in Oxford, England. The world of athletics moved on fast. Six weeks after Bannister made history, Landy himself obliterated the new world record, running 3:58 dead. In the years that followed, sub-four-minute miles became commonplace among elite athletes. (In 2011, the fifth American high school boy broke the barrier.) The four-minute mile was only unbreakable until one man broke it. “Après moi,” said Bannister, “le déluge.”
William Faulkner described fiction as, “The human heart at conflict with itself," this story has it at its centre. David Vann is one that juxtaposes chWilliam Faulkner described fiction as, “The human heart at conflict with itself," this story has it at its centre. David Vann is one that juxtaposes characters, love, struggles, and nature. He places them in various environments, with their journey, in the wilderness, in islands, in mountains, and now with this tale, fish. This is a tale in the first person narrative, with a potent and visceral prose, in the voice of a young girl. Unflinching and unwavering in interest, the author has you in the tragedy and the journey of this girl and what surrounds her right to the end.
"My mother that evening was tired. She lay on the couch and I snugged against her and we watched TV, mostly commercials. Back in our aquarium, as territorial and easily found as any fish. We had only four places to hide in this tank: the couch, the bed, the table, and the bathroom. If you checked those four spots, you’d always find us.The bare white walls gone blue in the light from the TV, no different from glass. A ceiling clamped down above so we couldn’t jump out and escape. Sound of a filter and pump running, the heating unit, keeping us at the right temperature.The only question was who was outside, looking in."
"East Yesler Way didn’t seem like it was in a city. Lined with two-story apartment complexes, with front yards that looked like backyards, some of them littered with plastic toys and laundry and thrown-away furniture but most looking tidy enough behind their chain-link fences. Smokers standing in the cold, watching me pass. Maybe it did look like a city. Just not downtown, even though we were close. Almost every day someone was moving in or out. And they could be anyone, any race or age, with or without kids. Like one big motel, that entire long street, built for no one’s dream. I didn’t like East Yesler Way because no one belonged, but for some reason I never walked down one of the other streets. I had a pathway, a route, as unthinking as the sharks that circled like monks. I felt safe, at least, in my big jacket, and no one bothered me, which I find amazing when I look back on it now. I Google the street and see the crime rate at three times the national average,car theft almost six times higher.I think of my mother and the teachers at school letting me walk that route every day, and I’m filled with a rage that will never go away because it comes from some hollow vertigo unfinished. I feel dizzy with fear for my former self, and how can that be? I’m here now. I’m safe. I have a job. I’m thirty-two years old. I live in a better section of town. I should forgive and forget. The only thing that kept me moving along that street each afternoon was the blue at the end, the sea visible because we were on a hill. That blue promised the aquarium. A gauntlet leading to a sanctuary. I could have stayed in an after-school program, but it was my choice to visit the fish. They were emissaries sent from a larger world.They were the same as possibility, a kind of promise."
"Everything bad in this world comes from men, my mother said.You have to know that. All violence, all fear, all slavery. Everything that crushes us."
"How do you put a family back together, and how do you forgive?"
"To enterprising young men. The subscriber wishes to engage one hundred young men to ascend the Missouri river to its source, there to be employed for"To enterprising young men. The subscriber wishes to engage one hundred young men to ascend the Missouri river to its source, there to be employed for one, two, or three years. For particulars enquire of Captain Henry, near the lead mines in the country of Washington, who will ascend with, and command, the party."
After the bear attack, it was asked for two men to stay behind with the dying man Glass, for a some of money they were to give him a burial then catch up with the group out seeking Fur. One man of the two, Fitzgerald, had a history of violence and gambling. Bridger, the other, had a dream to travel and see the mountains and wilderness. What was not carried out as agreed inevitably lead to one mans quest and vow for revenge and justice, these factors drove him with sheer bravery and courage to basically craw across the wilderness and crossing paths with all manner of beasts, snakes, wolves and men. What they had done was rob him of his few prized possession in particular, The Angstadt, his rifle.
This historical tale has truth in it as a man of this name Hugh Gass, the main protagonist of this tale, did exist and was attacker by a grizzly and mauled and then left by two men to tend for himself and then was set upon a quest for revenge. The encounters with different characters of nature, encounters with different tongues and ways of men, encounters with the wilderness and the Bear, and being left for dead crawling for survival all come alive on the page with sentences evoking a great sense of place and action, with memorable crafted characters and a great hook in the narrative to the question of the survival of Hugh Gass, and to the finality of his revenge.
A must read tale for 2015. This tale will also be played out in a film adaption starring Leanardo DI Caprio.
"Fitzgerald grew up in New Orleans, the son of a Scottish sailor and a Cajun merchant’s daughter. His father put in port once a year during the ten years of marriage before his ship went down in the Caribbean. On each call to New Orleans he left his fertile wife with the seed of a new addition to the family. Three months after learning of her husband’s death, Fitzgerald’s mother married the elderly owner of a sundry shop, an action she viewed as essential to support her family. Her pragmatic decision served most of her children well. Eight survived to adulthood. The two eldest sons took over the sundry shop when the old man died. Most of the other boys found honest work and the girls married respectably. John got lost somewhere in the middle. From an early age, Fitzgerald demonstrated both a reflex toward and a skill for engaging in violence. He was quick to resolve disputes with a punch or a kick, and was thrown out of school at the age of ten for stabbing a classmate in the leg with a pencil. Fitzgerald had no interest in the hard labor of following his father to sea, but he mixed eagerly in the seedy chaos of a port town. His fighting skills were tested and honed on the docks where he spent his teenage days. At seventeen, a boatman slashed his face in a barroom brawl. The incident left him with a fishhook scar and a new respect for cutlery. He became fascinated with knives, acquiring a collection of daggers and scalpers in a wide range of sizes and shapes."
"Yet it wasn’t the Mississippi River that captured Jim Bridger’s imagination—it was the Missouri. A mere six miles from his ferry the two great rivers joined as one, the wild waters of the frontier pouring into the bromide current of the everyday. It was the confluence of old and new, known and unknown, civilization and wilderness. Bridger lived for the rare moments when the fur traders and voyageurs tied their sleek Mackinaws at the ferry landing, sometimes even camping for the night. He marveled at their tales of savage Indians, teeming game, forever plains, and soaring mountains. The frontier for Bridger became an aching presence that he could feel, but could not define, a magnetic force pulling him inexorably toward something that he had heard about, but never seen. A preacher on a swaybacked mule rode Bridger’s ferry one day. He asked Bridger if he knew God’s mission for him in life. Without pause Bridger answered, “Go to the Rockies.” The preacher was elated, urging the boy to consider missionary work with the savages. Bridger had no interest in bringing Jesus to the Indians, but the conversation stuck with him. The boy came to believe that going west was more than just a fancy for someplace new. He came to see it as a part of his soul, a missing piece that could only be made whole on some far-off mountain or plain."
"I have to get warm. It took all his strength to lift his head. The blanket lay about twenty feet away. He rolled from his side to his stomach, maneuvering his left arm out in front of his body. Glass bent his left leg, then straightened it to push. Between his one good arm and his one good leg, he push-dragged himself across the clearing. The twenty feet felt like twenty miles, and three times he stopped to rest. Each breath drew like a rasp through his throat, and he felt again the dull throbbing in his cleaved back. He stretched to grab the blanket when it came within reach. He pulled it around his shoulders, embracing the weighty warmth of the Hudson Bay wool. Then he passed out. Through the long morning, Glass’s body fought against the infection of his wounds. He slipped between consciousness, unconsciousness, and a confusing state in between, aware of his surroundings like random pages of a book, scattered glimpses of a story with no continuity to bind them. When conscious, he wished desperately to sleep again, if only to gain respite from the pain. Yet each interlude of sleep came with a haunting precursor—the terrifying thought that he might never wake again. Is this what it’s like to die?"
"The collected Pawnee tribe stood in front of him, openmouthed in shock. Glass’s entire face was blood red, as if his skin had been stripped away. The whites of his eyes caught the light of the fire and shone like a fall moon. Most of the Indians had never seen a white man, so his full beard added to the impression of a demonic animal. Glass slapped one of the braves with his open hand, leaving a vermillion hand print etched on his chest. The tribe let out a collective gasp."