Mr. James’s Reviews > Suttree > Status Update
Mr. James
is on page 128 of 471
The preacher had the man by the collar. He was sputtering and reeling about and he looked half crazy. The preacher steadied him by the forehead, intoning the baptismal service. Suttree rose and dusted the grass from his trousers. You aint fixin to leave are ye? The old man asked. I sure as hell am, said Suttree. [...] Suttree knew the river well already and he turned his back to these malingerers and went on. -- C.M.
— May 06, 2026 02:31PM
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Mr. James’s Previous Updates
Mr. James
is on page 132 of 471
The old musty album with its foxed and crumbling paper seemed to breathe a reek of the vault, turning up one by one these dead faces with their wan and loveless gaze out toward the spinning world, masks of incertitude before the cold glass eye of the camera or recoiling before this celluloid immortality or faces simply staggered into gaga by sheer velocity of time... I am, I am. An artifact of a prior race. -- C.M.
— 22 hours, 54 min ago
Mr. James
is on page 112 of 471
Suttree smiled. I hear that old woman shot you the other night. [...] She shot about four holes in the wall. Shot a picture down. I ducked behind the sofa and she shot a hole in that and John Clancy said they was a rat the size of a housecat come out from under it just shittin and a gettin it. He was layin in the floor and he said it run right over the top of him. -- C.M.
— May 03, 2026 02:50PM
Mr. James
is on page 108 of 471
He went into the Gold Sun... sitting at the counter among the morning smells of fried sausage and eggs. He rolled back the folds of his trouserlegs and examined his wound. The beggar's illspaced teeth had printed two little sickle shapes, the flesh blue, small pinlets of blood. Harrogate wet a paper napkin in his water glass and laved it over his queer stigmata. Son of a bitch, he muttered. -- C.M.
— May 02, 2026 12:31AM
Mr. James
is on page 100 of 471
The carpeting had been rained on and was lightly furred with pale blue mold. Something small and fat and wet with an umbilical looking tail lying there. A sort of slug. He picked it up. A human eye looked up at him from between his thumb and forefinger. -- C.M.
— Apr 30, 2026 11:02AM
Mr. James
is on page 92 of 471
He fell to studying the variety of moths pressed to the glass, resting his elbows on the sill and his chin on the back of his hand. Supplicants of light. Here one tinted easter pink along the edges of his white fur belly and wings. Eyes black, triangular, a robber's mask. Furred and wizened face not unlike a monkey's and wearing a windswept ermine shako. Suttree bent to see him better. What do you want? -- C.M.
— Apr 29, 2026 02:47AM
Mr. James
is on page 80 of 471
I'd like these shoes soled I dreamt I dreamt. An old bent cobbler looked up from his lasts and lapstone with eyes dim and windowed. Not these, my boy, they are far too far gone, these soles. But I've no others. The old man shook his head. You must forget these and find others now. -- C.M.
— Apr 28, 2026 05:37AM
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
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
Mr. James
is on page 38 of 471
Somebody has been fuckin my watermelons. [...] What do you aim to do? Hell, I don't know. It's about too late to do anything. He's damn near screwed the whole patch. I don't see why he couldnt of stuck to just one. Or a few. Well, I guess he takes himself for a lover. Sort of like a sailor in a whorehouse. -- C.M.
— Apr 24, 2026 04:10AM
Mr. James
is on page 30 of 471
The last time I drank some of that shit I like to died. I stunk from the inside out. I laid in a tub of hot water all day and climbed out and dried and you could still smell it. I had to burn my clothes. I had the dry heaves, the drizzling shits, the cold shakes and the jakeleg. I can think about it now and feel bad. -- C.M.
— Apr 23, 2026 01:18PM
