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… emeralds, gulls sleep like albatrosses on the air, the sun comes up and sets in the same hour just that we see its … oh, what more could I ask? Those who have drunk have died drinking your drink, ravenous to cross to that other …

… and the frogs in the terrarium that grew gray and fat and died one rainy afternoon in February all at once and all together in a cough: these had become the motes in the air that had settled onto the slats. … It was cool, and he had put on his blue sweater and sandals. His mother had insisted that he always wear socks with …

… The Golden Weather: A Novel, The Writer in the South: Studies in a Literary Community, and Southern Renaissance: The Literature of the … career. His discussion of The China Hands raises some points not hitherto considered in reviews of the book. A …

… mountains, between the knuckles of the mountains. They will come home with fog on the hoods of their trucks, will gut … the sound of a wet branch breaking under foot. And the sun coming up, pushing its affection into the fog, nothing for …

… they’d sent him home. The nurse had warned him no more false calls and patted his back to reassure him that death … Your mother’s worried. He waves at me from the car to come on. Listen, I’ve got to go. I can hear her cracking … see my father through the window banging on the counter. He points toward the bathroom door, which has a yellow pole …