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Mr. James
is on page 62 of 471
Suttree looked at him. He was not lovable. This adenoidal leptosome that crouched above his bed like a wizened bird, his razorous shoulderblades, jutting in the thin cloth of his striped shirt. Sly, ratfaced, a convicted pervert of a botanical bent. Who would do worse when in the world again. Bet on it. But something in him so transparent, something vulnerable. -- C.M.
— Apr 26, 2026 08:40AM
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Mr. James
is on page 52 of 471
In the long days of fall they went like dreamers. Watching the sky for rain. When it came it rained for days. [...] A sad and bitter season. Barrenness of heart and gothic loneliness. Suttree dreamed old dreams of fairgrounds where young girls with flowered hair and wide child's eyes watched by flarelight sequined aerialists aloft. Visions of unspeakable loveliness from a world lost. -- C.M.
— Apr 25, 2026 07:48AM
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