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384 pages, Hardcover
First published February 1, 1999
At night, it was easy to imagine a sacred world adjacent to this one, a world in which everything human was diminished and every speck of earth was a symbol of the divine or its opposite. It was even possible, at night, to imagine the worlds as porous, the divine (or its opposite) intruding on the banal, though he had no real access to that other world and only glimpsed it in strange dreams. For the most part, the miraculous seemed to shun him. It had left his life ages ago.
The Soucouyant had long, dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, a nose that was a trifle broad, full lips, and a strong chin. Her neck was graceful, her breasts full, her hips narrow. Were it not for her breath, she was his imagined ideal of a brown-skinned woman. (But she was nothing of the sort. She was neither beautiful nor attentive. Her hair was not soft, nor were her breasts full. “She” was not a woman, after all.)
I seemed to glimpse a purpose to the universe: everything is pushed from behind or held in place. The stars couldn't move. The sun was held fast; the earth was constrained. All we could do, any of us, was spin. All that we want, and all we pursue, gives the illusion of movement, of liberty. There is no movement, no liberty, only local phenomena of such paltry significance it’s a wonder we get out of bed for them.