Reading a Harry Crews book is like drinking rot-gut whiskey with an old friend who just got out of jail, but will no doubt be back in the slammer come sun-up. Even though I’m such a Yank, I always lock in with his rural Southern voice, see his borderline world as clear as day, and laugh at all his twisted jokes. God bless you, Crews, you crazy son-of-a-bitch.
Wow. Actor Sterling Hayden was a damned fine writer.
“Low in the east spread an ivory fan, and the moon’s bleached skull peeked from the rim of the sea. Stars fell back, and a white road led from the raw Atlantic to the ragged coast of Monhegan, where pines clung to granite, their backs to a northwest gale. Wraiths of snow were swept from meadows and fields. Lights flashed from scarred bold promontories. From each stone tower a tunnel led to a small frame house, where, by banked fires, old men lounged through lonely graveyard hours.”
-Voyage: A Novel of 1896-
Some professor left a stack of books out for the taking. Faculty moving onto a new gig, or retiring, and at the end of the academic year, I always seem to make a score like this. I’ll miss this about my workplace – these random encounters with books left behind.