Rising in Grady was an ungovernable laughter, a joyous agitation which made the white summer stretching before her seem like an unrolling canvas on which she might draw those first rude pure strokes that are free. Then, too, and with a straight face, she was laughing because there was so little they suspected, nothing. The light quivering against the table silver seemed to at once encourage her excitement and to flash a warning signal: careful, dear. But elsewhere something said…
In the time it took Sarge to read one chapter of Ulysses, I started and finished I Was Amelia Earhart, recommended by DB over at Getting in Touch with my Inner Basket Case. This book was a blink. A very poetic blink. I wanted it to be longer, but I realise now the length was perfect for the story, the moments. It reminded me of any books read in any year of High School English. This is part of its…
