If anyone in the future were to ever ask me, How bad was that strain of the flu that destroyed so many people around the time your brother died—that “Spanish influenza” that raged out of control when Albrecht Schendel was found murdered in his store? I would tell them what I witnessed, all the pain and the grief and the seas of blood. Yet I don’t think mere words, mere fumbled attempts to articulate the suffering, would be enough to convey the horror.
All of a sudden this book is like jarring and weird and wtf is this
