What do you think?
Rate this book


141 pages, Paperback
First published May 29, 2006
Offstage, he looked
too ordinary in his strength to be so;
short and stumpish like a pugilist, he lived
by his fists, all ox-neck and thick root,
all barrel-chest, battered like a kitchen chair.
So that, trembling, fingering my skin, I began to doubt: had I
accomplished this, who was not remarkable, no more than others?
This, which sang in me for a time, then fell silent.
Months of dust and rain, abandoned, in flickering railcars. It is true: to
live without illusion is to live without hope.