Grief, He Said, Is Carnivorous.

Or Maybe I'd Do What I Always Do - Hang Out And See What Develops. Fatalist To The Core.

Patrick Kenzie Asking A Bemused Waitress For A Newspaper In Smalltown Usa. 'it's Like A Homepage Without A Scroll Button?'

It Had Occurred To Sean Once - On A Bender About Ten Years Before With Some Buddies, Sean And A Bloodstream Full Of Bourbon Turning Philosophical - That Maybe They Had Gotten In That Car. All Three Of Them. And What They Now Thought Of As Their Life Was Just A Dream State. That All Three Of Them Were, In Reality, Still Eleven-year-old Boys Trapped In Some Cellar, Imagining What They'd Become If They Ever Escaped And Grew Up.

A Pretty Face Had Been Damaged By Acne Scars And She Wore And Extra Forty Pounds On Her Frame Like A Threat. Her Eyes Were Dull With Anger Disguised As Apathy. If She Kept On Her Current Path, She'd Grow Into The Type Of Person Who Fed Her Kids Doritos For Breakfast And Purchased Angry Bumper Stickers With Lots Of Exclamation Points. But Right Now, She Was Just Another In A Long Line Of Pissed-off Small-town Girls With A Shitty Outlook.

I Can't Remember Coming Across A More Precise Evocation Of Innocence Lost Since Golding's The Lord Of The Flies. With The Death Of Sweet Mister, Daniel Woodrell Has Written His Masterpiece-spare, Dark, And Incandescently Beautiful. It Broke My Heart.