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Whatever fucking exists, he said. Whatever in creation exists without my fucking knowledge exists without my fucking consent.
I said are you quits? Quits? Cause if you want some more of me you sure as hell goin to get it. He looked at the sky. Very high, very small, a buzzard. He looked at the man. Is my neck broke? he said. The man looked out over the lot and spat and looked at the boy again. Can you not get up? I dont know. I aint tried. I never meant to break your neck. No. I meant to kill ye.
The malpais. It was a maze. Ye’d run out upon a little promontory and ye’d be balked about by the steep crevasses, you wouldnt dare to jump them. Sharp black glass the edges and sharp the flinty rocks below. We led the horses with every care and still they were bleedin about their hooves. Our boots was cut to pieces. Clamberin over those old caved and rimpled plates you could see well enough how things had gone in that place, rocks melted and set up all wrinkled like a pudding, the earth stove through to the molten core of her. Where for aught any man knows lies the locality of hell. For the earth is a globe in the void and truth there’s no up nor down to it and there’s men in this company besides myself seen little cloven hoof-prints in the stone clever as a little doe in her going but what little doe ever trod melted rock?
They rode on into the darkness and the moonblanched waste lay before them cold and pale and the moon sat in a ring overhead and in that ring lay a mock moon with its own cold gray and nacre seas. They made camp on a low bench of land where walls of dry aggregate marked an old river course and they struck up a fire about which they sat in silence, the eyes of the dog and of the idiot and certain other men glowing red as coals in their heads where they turned. The flames sawed in the wind and the embers paled and deepened and paled and deepened like the bloodbeat of some living thing eviscerate upon the ground before them and they watched the fire which does contain within it something of men themselves inasmuch as they are less without it and are divided from their origins and are exiles. For each fire is all fires, the first fire and the last ever to be.
Eirik la ut lista over redaktørenes valg - her er tilsvarende liste over lesernes preferanser. Noe er likt, men ulikhetene er spektakulære. Rimeligvis er det engelskspråklige lesere som har gitt sine stemmer her - noen av de mest populære forfatterne har jeg aldri hørt om! Jeg har lest 37 av disse og har ingen ambisjoner om å lese hele lista!
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