The Book.
I finished The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith several days ago, and, as it is a book I intend to read again, I recommend it. Some books are enjoyable but unworthy of a second reading; this is not one of them. I would like to read it now that I am familiar with the storyline so that I can pay more attention to the intertwining relationships whose ties lead to Tristan.
Finally I permitted myself to look down at my audience. The ground was not more than twenty feet below me. Faces were tilted up towards me. I turned to them.
The faces were all wrong.
They were not faces looking at an actor. Nor were they looking at something as simple as a boy on a pipe. The faces looked at something like snot, like slime, like something dripping down towards them from which they wished to take their eyes and which, the clearer and closer it became, produced in their own eyes and lips such grotesque contortions that I knew—properly, fully, for the first time in my life—I was a monster.
Wally, his mouth tight, his eyes brimming, stood on an oil drum at the base of the pipe. He held his pale freckled arms out towards me. When I fell into his arms he crushed me to him, as if, in holding my snotty face so forcibly against his neck, he could block out everything I had just learned.
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