More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
His posture shifted, canting toward me. Two parts comfort, one part hunger. That was the problem with writers. They couldn’t help digging the edge of a fingernail under your scabs so they could feel the shape of your wounds.
When I remembered it, I pictured myself from above, crawling over the ground, dragging myself up onto that log. I didn’t remember the pain. The mind is not constructed to hold on to the sense of such agony.
