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281 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1990
I was sitting across from the Indian woman, who spoke with an accent mixed with precision and vagueness, as if there was a lot of incredible legend in what she was recalling but also as if she was recalling it in good faith and even with the conviction that the passage of time had changed legend into reality that was remote but hard to forget.
I couldn't articulate how much shame and ridicule there would be in burying this man whom everyone had hoped to see turn to dust inside his lair. Because people hadn't just expected that, they'd prepared themselves for things to happen that way and they'd hoped from the bottom of their hearts, without remorse, and even with the anticipated satisfaction of someday smelling the pleasant odor of his decomposition floating through the town without anyone's feeling moved, alarmed, or scandalized, satisfied rather at seeing the longed-for hour come, wanting the situation to go on and on until the twirling smell of the dead man would satisfy even the most hidden resentments.
—Page 11, Leaf Storm
”You can’t eat hope,” the woman said.
“You can’t eat it, but it sustains you,” the colonel replied.
—Page 157, No One Writes to the Colonel
They didn't hear the shouts of the whole town, frightened by its own crime
—Page 273, A Chronicle of a Death Foretold