How can a game—so simple on its face—be the subject of so much fantastic, engrossing, downright smart literature?
The notion that the carriage wheels clattering through Parisremind him of the drums from the islands in his father’s tales:clickclack sputterwhir—he could make a song of it, dance
All men are beggars, white or black;some worship gold, some peddle brass.My only house is on my back.
