“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
― Albert Camus
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.
I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.
The young boy goes to bed and kisses his mother goodnight. He goes to bed and closes his eyes and wishes his family good sleep.
Ever since your son brought you here, things have been different. He was crying when he dropped you off. You still don’t know why.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.