Near the end, hugging her meant knowing her as tissue. Her skin was what can only be called Fragile. Same as the Hummel dolls she kept locked in the glass cabinet we werent allowed to touch: thats a grandmother for you. Her skin was so loose it moved. I could feel my grandmothers cheek change against my face when she hugged me.
One Friday night in the spring of 1966, the first year I was at the Iowa Fiction Workshop, I was waitressing at the Steak-Out in the Jefferson Hotel, when Phil came in, a blonde, good-looking undergraduate who lived in one of the basement rooms below me where I lived at Black's Gaslight Village. Phil was carrying a huge coil of rope.
T. Motley is the author of The Road to Golgonooza, a fake jam comic.
Baron de Graün continued: About 18 months ago, a young man by the name of François Germain arrived in Paris from Nantes, where he had been employed by the banking firm of Noël & Company. Based on statements made by the Schoolmaster and several letters found on him, it appears that the scoundrel to whom he had entrusted his son for the sole purpose of corrupting him, so he might one day be of use to his criminal activities, revealed the terrible plot to the young man when he suggested that he assist them in an attempted robbery and forgery at the firm of Noël & Company, where François Germain worked.
David Means is, to me, a mystery writer. I dont mean in this the ordinary sense of a writer of whodunits or suspense novels. I mean that at its essence, literature is about a core human, and at times more-than-human, mystery.