What do you think?
Rate this book
225 pages, Paperback
First published August 3, 2010
The field is the world; the good seed are the children of
the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the
The enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the
end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.
As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire;
so shall it be the end of this world.
Hello! My name is Maury and I wouldn’t hurt a fly.
My grandmother loves me and wishes she could take
care of me for ever, but she’s most likely gone now.
I have family out west. If you find me, will you take
me to them? God bless you!
Jeb and Jennie Duchamp
442 Hamilton Street
Point Comfort, TX
"And, too, a carnival of death, a grassy park near the city center, a merry-go-round that turns unceasing hour by hour, its old-time calliope breathing out dented and rusty notes while the slugs pull their own arms out of the sockets trying to climb aboard the moving platform, some disembodied limbs dragging in the dirt around and around, hands still gripping the metal poles—and the ones who succeed and climb aboard, mounting to the top of the wooden horses, joining with the endless motion of the machine, dazed to imbecility by gut memories of speed and human ingenuity. And the horde, in the blackout of the city night, illumined only by the headlights of the car, everywhere descending and roiling against one another like maggots in the belly of a dead cat, the grimmest and most degenerate manifestation this blighted humanity on this blighted earth—beasts of our lost pasts, spilling out of whatever hell we have made for them like the army of the damned, choked and gagging and rotted and crusty and eminently pathetic, yes, brutally, conspicuously, outrageously pathetic."
But you gotta look at the world that is and try not to get bogged down by what it ain't.
They don't bother you so much, she says, if you can stay out from between their teeth.
If I ain't evil, then what am I? Cause my hands, see, they ain't seem to got no purpose except when they're bashing in a skull or slittin a throat. That's the whole, all around truth of the matter. Them meatskins, they kill - but they ain't get any satisfaction out of it. Maury, you sure are wanderin a lonely earth - full of breach and befoulment - but the real abomination is sittin right next to you.
There they sit, at a rickety card table attached with brackets to the inside wall of the boxcar so it doesn't spill over with the starts and stops, playing Omaha poker and drinking booze out of tin mugs, or sitting with their legs out the open side of the car, watching the landscape go by and breaking down their guns to clean them, or carving miniature figures out of basswood with pocketknives. There they are, the new knights-errant of this blasted homaloid - lost men who find lost men and carry them to safety by their dusty collars.
They belong, Temple thinks. They have they stink of belonging wherever they go. This world is their world, and they take possession of every yard they cover, and they run the sun to its grave every night.
This girl ain't full service.
You give me a compass that tells good from bad, and boy I’ll be a soldier of the righteous truth. But them two things are a slippery business, and tellin them apart might as well be a blind man’s guess.This is a short novel that manages to be epic in its themes and scope, all at once horrific, heartbreaking and rife with tragedy. The violence is explicit but even as the blood and stinking offal pour across the page the book’s magnitude and terrible beauty is never in dispute. Alden Bell is writing Southern Gothic set in a landscape where things are not “gross” but rather “grotesque”.