It contained a single piece of paper, which Thomas had hastily stuffed into it that morning as they all were leaving the house together for the last time, by way or in lieu of expressing the feelings of love, fear, and hopefulness that his brother’s escape inspired. It was the drawing of Harry Houdini, taking a calm cup of tea in the middle of the

In 1939 the American comic book, like the beavers and cockroaches of prehistory, was larger and, in its cumbersome way, more splendid than its modern descendant.

In 1939 the American comic book, like the beavers and cockroaches of prehistory, was larger and, in its cumbersome way, more splendid than its modern descendant. It aspired to the dimensions of a slick magazine and to the thickness of a pulp, offering sixty-four pages of gaudy bulk (including the cover) for its ideal price of one thin dime. While t

But Sammy was not listening. He was flipping slowly through the pages of the first chapter, deciphering the action from the flow of wordless images across the page. Joe was aware of a strange warmth in his belly, behind his diaphragm, as he watched Sammy read his secret book. “I—I guess I could try to tell you—” he began. “It’s fine, I’m getting it

You don’t know how lucky you are. You forget,” said the younger man, “I teach fifth grade. I see the fantasy leaching out of them little by little every day. Narrowing its focus. Losing its complexity. Fifth grade, that’s the last year for a lot of them.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, the motion neat and almost dainty. Then he balled the napk

“Then there is no choice,” he said. “They spent everything they had.” He accepted the cigarette the old man offered. “What am I saying—‘if I’m going’?” He spat a flake of tobacco at the ground. “I have to go.” “What you have to do, my boy,” Kornblum said, “is to try to remember that you are already gone.”

In seeking revenge, he had allied himself with the Ice, with the interminable white topography, with the sawteeth and crevasses of death. Nothing that had ever happened to him, not the shooting of Oyster, or the piteous muttering expiration of John Wesley Shannenhouse, or the death of his father, or internment of his mother and grandfather, not eve

It was the drawing of Harry Houdini, taking a calm cup of tea in the middle of the sky, that Thomas had made in his notebook during his abortive career as a librettist. Josef studied it, feeling as he sailed toward freedom as if he weighed nothing at all, as if every precious burden had been lifted from him.

The Ark of Miriam, her course smoothed by the invisible hand of Eleanor Roosevelt, set sail from Lisbon on the third of December.