My Thoughts While Reading The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead. Rebecca Moll

There is a rumble, tumble, a syncopy to Whitehead's writing - tripping over words, like stones, barefoot in a gushing, mountain river, sentences thrown together, clamoring for footing among disengaged sequences of time and place, a labyrinth, kindred to the very railroad of Whitehead's imagination.
That is, until Indiana.
Indiana, America's mid-west, neither North or South, smooth, flat, fertile, patient. "'Stay. Contribute.' A request. A cure." The story flows freely now, the river becomes a placid lake, the secret journey taken, below, dark, behind, past.
I imagine the end of the story, almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, the Underground Tunnel, covert, genius, defiant, liberating. My childish mind sees the engine, enormous, black and sooty, angry, alive bursting through the surface, the very earth we walk, to unabashed sunshine, to freedom. Oh, the innocence of childhood!
But, I have many pages to go. Perhaps the peaceful surface of the lake belies pressures below. Perhaps, a damn, of man's making, and a minuscule stone that falls away, and then another, and then another...Time to turn the page.