Sublime

Mark Twain’s sentiment in “The Two Testaments”—that “when man could endure life no longer, death came and set him free”—seemed

expurgated

What devouring kind of toil could have so shriveled him? What devouring passions had darkened that bulbous countenance, which would have seemed outrageous as a caricature? What had he been?

the speculative novelist becomes a satirist; he looks around, and he makes it worse.

Atticus, being unpredictable, was a danger to them all.

But not all of us. It must have been around that time that I discovered an essay by Ralph Wiley in which he responded to Bellow’s quip. “Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus,” wrote Wiley. “Unless you find a profit in fencing off universal properties of mankind into exclusive tribal ownership.” And there it was. I had accepted Bellow’s premise. In f

Not once have the Civilized been able to honor, recognize, or describe the Savage. He is, practically speaking, the source of their wealth, his continued subjugation the key to their power and glory.