Status Updates From Il guardiano del frutteto

Deep hole between her neck-
cords, smokeblue. Laddered boneshapes under the paper skin like rows of welts descending into the bosom of her dress. Eyes lowered to her work, blink when she swallows like a toad's. Lids wrinkled like walnut hulls. Her grizzled hair gathered, tight, a helmet of zinc wire. Softly rocking, rocking.

And far in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.

If I was a younger man, he told himself, I would move to them mountains. I would find me a clearwater branch and build me a log house with a fireplace. And my bees would make black mountain honey. And I wouldn't care for no man.

He started down the steep incline. —Then I wouldn't be unneighborly neither, he added.

For miles on miles the high country rolled lightless and uninhabited, the road ferruling through dark forests of owl trees, bat caverns, witch covens.

Have no interest in this ending, as then there will only be 2 McCarthy left for me to read, and really it's only one plus. Alas.

If you haven't read McCarthy, what are you doing with your time.

Old man having old man troubles

Cormac coperta di Linus. Due parole e ti trasporta in un altro mondo, negli Appalachi fra caprifoglio e succiacapre 🫶