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320 pages, Hardcover
First published April 19, 2022
"They each held one of the mooring lines that dangled from the balloon, watching the sullen globe form beneath the braids of hemp. It flickered and belched, emitting black gouts of smoke, and Billy felt his own chest swelling in unison. Soon a man would ascend into the Mississippi heavens, high enough to see the university, the rail depot, the lazy scrawl of the Tallahatchie River. He would hang amid the clouded aeries of gods and eagles, and then he would fall, returning to the red clay and cotton fields of the state, living or dead. Either was miracle enough."
"Faulkner peered through the smeared windows. He wrote on the narrow balcony in the mornings, sitting hunched over the cobblestones where General Andrew Jackson conspired with the pirate and contrabandist Jean Lafitte--'the Terror of the Gulf'--enlisting his guns in the Battle of New Orleans. Across the alley glowed the sculpted greenery of St. Anthony's Garden, where men had engaged in affaires d'honneur, dueling with rapiers and sabers and pistols, murdering each other over slurs and mistresses and games of cards. Christ rose in white marble from the hedges, his arms lifted high and winglike, as if conducting the motley rabble of drunks and vagrants who milled outside the wrought-iron palings, hacking and screaming over the wet little mouths of their bottles."
"Here was the migration they'd seen from the air, the human herd headed west, filling the sinewy roads and highways. This river of the bankrupt and orphaned and workless, the once-rich and the lowborn walking side by side, laboring behind wobble-wheeled baby carriages or wheelbarrows or pushcarts overburdened with the remnants of home. Some rode bicycles, their thin tires weaving through the ruts, or trudged hunchbacked in the traces of crude rickshaws."
They came storming across the country in the wake of the Armistice, a swarm of mayflies hatched in the aerodromes of France, featherlight fliers buzzing from field to field, town to town, looping and barreling in brainless mania , flying into trees and lakes and fields of cotton and corn, slamming into farmhouses and clocktowers, exploding before the heat-flared faces of the crowds. They died by fire, as they had in the war, or were ripped asunder in the violence of impact, goggled ex-aces who could find no way down from the high of combat save this. They traded enemy guns for hail and downpour, lightning and the crushing winds of anvil-shaped clouds. They died in legion, short-lived, while the cities roared, and when the country crashed, they flew only lower, faster, to draw their pennies from the crowds.