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“If we had,” Dorian said, “we would have seen the Hound of the Baskervilles. What did it look like?” “Absolute evil,” Charley said. “Glorious. We should all strive to be the absolute version of something.”
We were drowning in a sea of pronouns.
He was too schooled in seeing other points of view to hold to his own.
Jacqueline Blaine’s prose.
“He’s very subject to interpretation, Mr. Sutherland, just like the rest of us. And you see him as small, helpless, hopeless. You tell him that often enough. He believes what you tell him.” “I don’t tell him that.” “He’s a reader,” Eric said. “Do you think he can’t read you? Everything you do tells him that.” “I don’t,” I insisted, but the cold deepened. Because I did tell him that. I never meant to. I never realized. I just wanted to protect him. No, I wanted him to need me to protect him. “I’m not a summoner,” I said. “However I saw him, I couldn’t alter him.” “You’re not a summoner,” he
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He smiled, very slightly. “‘We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on.’”
Holmes said, “Are you quite well, Sutherland?” I started to say I was fine, but suddenly I was shaking, and then I realized I was starting to cry, and then I couldn’t stop. I hate crying. It’s so inarticulate and helpless. And this was in front of Sherlock Holmes. I basically wanted to die.
Charles Sutherland, age two Hello. My name is Charles Sutherland. I am two years old. This is the first thing I have written down ever. I made the letters but not the words because I wanted to get them right. Now I have written them down and I exist. Things in writing exist. They are not always true. But they exist. My favorite books are The Hound of the Baskervilles and Green Eggs and Ham. And the first part of Great Expectations. I havent read the rest yet.
