Men together bullying, boasting, bragging, buddying up, being belligerent, being bureaucratic, having a blast at banquets and booze-ups, bearing briefcases, breaking promises, and brokering big-shot business deals.
Dean Faulkner Wells, who has put down here William Faulkner’s ghost story “The Werewolf” as he told it to her and her cousin Jill (Mr. Bill’s daughter) and her cousin Vicki and the other children of Oxford, is Mr. Bill’s niece. She was named after her father Dean, who was Mr. Bill’s
In the kitchen, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in his front yard. The mattress was stripped and the candy-striped sheets lay beside two pillows on the chiffonier. Except for that
O’Connor’s agent dropped him off at Theodore’s restaurant. At his agent’s insistence he had put on the black beard, his auburn mane was stuffed up into a gray wig of conservative length, and he was
Bélem did tinker repair his bicycle by the stink-toe tree. Better to work there it smells so bad, work gets done no lazy quick. Then he rode to buy a woe shirt. He saw Mari then, standing. She said, “You going to buy that shirt, I know!
Boki was watching Álse Odjo with a twig broom sweep the floor. The twig-ends were breaking off and Álse Odjo kept sweeping them up. “You losing broom all over the floor!” Boki said, “I see that broom creating its own work!”
The dead came to her summons so promptly, even Mrs. Atabal questioned the nature of her calling. Do you suppose .. .I am a fake? she asked herself in the kitchen, bracing her weight, her considerable
At an age when most young Scotsmen were lifting skirts, plowing furrows and spreading seed, Mungo Park was displaying his bare buttocks to Ali Ibn Haj’ Fatoudi, emir of Ludamar. The year was 1795.
Emilie was talking with Bélem while looking at the gathered loud of nesting birds. “Which bird going to hatch today’s woe, guess that?” Emilie said, she said, “I’ll carry that egg to the man who took my donkey for my debt, I’ll give him that a breakfast gift!”
The trip was going to be a stronzo. It was reminding her of a Rome traffic jam once near Ponte Vittorio when a man in sun-glasses and an open shirt had gotten out of his blocked Fiat 500 and, from
A man has died, but in his casket, in his skull’s gray dungeon—the world’s tiniest theater, his last thought remains. Down in the ghetto of the dead, the terminal second of an existence otherwise unimportant is kept in perpetuity.