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They say that if you wear a mask long enough, you become what you pretend to be.
The Quarter was swollen with sound: clarinet wails boiling over like kettles too long on the stove, hollering soap sellers looming in shop fronts with candy-like samples slivered on mirrored trays, kids tap-dancing with bottle caps glued to the soles of their sneakers, and farther off, beyond the levee, the haunted calliope of the Steamboat Natchez, whose carnival song could be heard even a mile away, two miles, ten, onward…
Each body, he’d say, is a map, rivered with tendons and capillaries, peaked with mountains of muscle, bone, cartilage, fields of skin.
The most dangerous and violent men are the ones who believe they have nothing to fear.
