Every Man a King: A King Oliver Novel

by Walter Mosley

Most of the literature I’ve read on psychotherapy says that all humans’ true psychological natures were developed before the age of six; what you experienced combined with the structure of your DNA bespoke who you would be from then on. You could make conscious changes to your mind, but you had to work at it all the time because the person you were born to be was always ready to come out and play, and play hard. I believe in that psychological rule of thumb even though my experience has seemingly been the exception.

Advice is best given in interrogative form. That way the work is done by the student rather than the teacher, who should already know the answers.

Solitary confinement, aka isolation, was the certainty of having no rights whatsoever. My hunger and thirst, my loneliness and need for love, my freedom to pick up and go—all of these were gone. This was true poverty. This was the experience of being slowly murdered by a state of being, by uncaring humans, by systems that did not, could not, share my suffering.

“Expect is a strong word,” I said. “I expect the sun to rise in the east, the sky around it to be blue, the Democrats to believe in their impossible dreams, and the Republicans to revel in their own stink.”

In spite of appearances, the majesty of nature is just a fancy blanket draped over the malevolence of the creatures of earth.