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He went among vendors and beggars and wild street preachers haranguing a lost world with a vigor unknown to the sane.
What family has no mariner in its tree? No fool, no felon. No fisherman.
And what could a child know of the darkness of God’s plan? Or how flesh is so frail it is hardly more than a dream.
In the sculptor’s art there always remains something unsaid, something waiting. This statuary will pass. This kingdom of fear and ashes.
Suttree muttering along half mindless, an aberrant journeyman to the trade of wonder.
You’d be amazed at what you can learn to yearn for.
who will come to weep the grave of an alias? Or lay one flower down.
