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Graham had a lot of trouble with taste. Often his thoughts were not tasty. There were no effective partitions in his mind. What he saw and learned touched everything else he knew. Some of the combinations were hard to live with. But he could not anticipate them, could not block and repress. His learned values of decency and propriety tagged along, shocked at his associations, appalled at his dreams; sorry that in the bone arena of his skull there were no forts for what he loved. His associations came at the speed of light. His value judgments were at the pace of a responsive reading. They
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He viewed his own mentality as grotesque but useful, like a chair made of antlers. There was nothing he could do about it.
“The reason you caught me is that we’re just alike” was the last thing Graham heard as the steel door closed behind him.
There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us. Graham knew too well that he contained all the elements to make murder; perhaps mercy too. He understood murder uncomfortably well, though.
He wondered if old, awful urges are the virus that makes vaccine.
Shiloh isn’t haunted—men are haunted. Shiloh doesn’t care.
