Yesterday I mentioned Joy Castro’s Island of Bones, a slim, magnificent book of essays, where not a word is wasted. These pieces are so brillianty crafted, each one shimmers. And the sentences sing. “She could lean toward him, inclining like a tautened bow. Her hand could laugh across his cheek, grazing away crumbs that were not there.” The music of words strung just so. I live for sentences like that. I read them again and again for the pleasure of hearing the sound and think, what a voice.

(Post 124 of 365)


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