it has to do w. the men / women & children of Polis / B who harvest their data in / this / polis of ours the best polis / on earth
I took care of Johnny’s horses. Johnny cared about them, and so he’d come and watch me, and it wasn’t possible for me not to imagine that he cared for me too. In part, at least, because we shared an object of affection. Perhaps love is always a three way—but the third must be an object. When another subject enters, that’s when the trouble . . . Of course horses are both . . .
Abeba, The African Giantess, stood on the crest of the hill watching The Great Petey Smith Circus carnies, performers, and mob of spectators swarm the square next to the town’s railroad tracks. Rain had pelted her tent in the dark hours, the thunderous hymn waking her up, but she knew then it wasn’t going to be no cleaning rain.
Whenever Rose closed her eyes she saw it. It greeted her when she lay down in bed each night to go to sleep, and at any time during the day when she wanted to rest her eyes. It was very big—hard to say how big because it was never next to anything. It was a rectangle of true black within the more hazy black of closed eyes.
For readers whose acquaintance with Patricia Highsmith (The Talented Mr. Ripley, Strangers on a Train) is only surface deep, Tyler's Last (Outpost19, 2015) by David Winner will be something of a shock. The frequent movie adaptations of her work make her a recognizable figure, yet leave a comfortable distance between the viewer and the author herself—up close, as we see her in this book, she is something else altogether, more intimate and intense, misanthropic and violent.