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Deadly serious and seriously funny, Matthew Sharpe’s fictional retelling of one of America's original myths is a history of violence, a cross-cultural love story, and a tragicomic commentary on America’s past and present.
like that?—might have felt such dread as hope. That the thought to try to make a change had come to me at all, that my body had not then expelled it as it would have done a childish dream or wormy slice of pie, was marvel enough for one life; such a thought would never have found the loam of hope in me, and if it had it likely would have choked in it; no, this thought’s best home and hope has been my rocky, arid, stinking lump of dread: where else could murder’s seed have grown and bloomed?
then not even that.” My dad’s head became gray ash. His chest and limbs turned to ash and fell upon the thronelike stump he continued to sit on in human form. The wind that swayed the trees and cooled the earth swept the pile of ash that was my dad into the air. The dad of mine who hadn’t turned to ash looked at me and said, “You’ll go now, and not let me see or hear you again as long as I live.” Did I say talking is the mirror of life? Talking is life, and death. Why must people talk? I opened
you’re the communications officer,” and he said, “God has imposed a communications blackout in case you haven’t noticed,” and I told him to say a damn prayer. “Lord, keep us from your thoughts, and you from ours,” Rolfe said. He stared at me. I don’t think Lohengrin or Gosnold heard a word he said. Johnny Rolfe We’re fleeing down the creek at breakneck speed while Smith continues on alone—well not alone but with an Indian for a guide. Lohengrin and Mankiewicz are dead. Lohengrin was dead
different from the pop of Chris Newport’s automatic gun, which they’d all heard not too many weeks before, so when they rushed in and saw John Martin standing above your father laughing, that’s whose head a zealous one of them put an arrow through from left to right before he could be stopped, and an explanation of the loud noise made to him. Again a silence filled the room as we waited for Martin to fall to the dirt. He did not. Your father sat on the floor and gazed up at him with a look more
we won’t know if we can do that if you keep attacking. If you keep attacking Manhattan we will surely suffer grave losses, but we will also patiently endure, whereas you will exhaust yourselves and spend everything you have and be left inert, depleted, with nothing to sustain you. Then it will require almost no effort for us to annex you peacefully, if your self-inflicted decimation and defeat can be said to be a kind of peace for you.” “This limitless patience and these bottomless resources of