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155 pages, Paperback
First published May 25, 1999
Mr. Bones knew that Willy wasn’t long for this world. The cough had been inside him for over six months, and by now there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would ever get rid of it.
Willy’s sidekick was a hodgepodge of genetic strains – part collie, part Labrador, part spaniel, part canine puzzle…
He was still William Gurevitch in those days, a scrawny sixteen-year-old boy with a passion for books and beebop jazz, and she had taken him under her wing and lavished his early work with praise that was so excessive, so far out of proportion to its true merit, that he began to think of himself as the next great hope of American literature.
The country was crawling with dropouts and runaway children, with long-haired neo-visionaries, dysfunctional anarchists, and doped-up misfits. For all the oddness he demonstrated in his own right, Willy hardly stood out among them.
And once you were there, he said, once you had crossed the boundaries of that refuge, you no longer had to worry about eating food or sleeping at night or emptying your bladder. You were at one with the universe, a speck of antimatter lodged in the brain of God.
"كان يعلم أنه روحٌ مُضطربة مَغمومة وغير مؤهلة للتوافق مع هذا العالم، لكنه كان يعلم أيضاً أن هناك الكثير من العمل الجيد مدفون في دفاتر الكتابة تلك، ومن هذه الناحية على الأقل، يستطيع أن يرفع رأسه عالياً.. "
"لا أحد يمكنه أن يبلغ أي شيء في هذه الحياة دون وجود شخص آخر يؤمن به.."
