Cat’s Cradle
Ambassador Minton went to the seaward parapet with his memorial wreath still in its case. And he delivered an amazing speech in honor of the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy. He dignified the dead, their country, and the life that was over for them by saying the “Hundred Martyrs to Democracy” in island dialect. That fragment of dialect was graceful and easy on his lips.
The rest of his speech was in American English. He had a written speech with him—fustian and bombast, I imagine. But, when he found he was going to speak to so few, and to fellow Americans for the most part, he put the formal speech away.
A light sea wind ruffled his thinning hair. “I am about to do a very un-ambassadorial thing,” he declared. “I am about to tell you what I really feel.”
From the archives
·
2025
Flesh
He and Ödon wait in the cold wood. It’s a winter afternoon and under the trees it’s already quite dark as they stand next to the car smoking cigarettes.
“Who’re we waiting for?” István asks.
“Just some guys,” Ödön says.
“Are we in Croatia?” István asks, a minute later.
Ödön shrugs.
“It’s fucking cold,” István says, a few minutes later.
“Yeah,” Ödön agrees.
After a while another car comes along the track, from the opposite direction. It’s a small Suzuki jeep with Croatian plates.
“Wait here,” Ödön says. “Keep your eyes open.”
He walks toward the jeep, which has stopped.
Two men get out and they talk. They seem to be speaking English but they talk in quiet voices and István can’t hear what they’re saying.
He can’t see them very well either in the dusky light.
He just stands there, with his hands in his pockets, feeling cold.
His feet, especially, feel very cold.
He’s wearing the wrong sort of shoes.
He looks down at them, and at the half-frozen mud of the track.
Read more of this excerpt...
Flesh
He and Ödon wait in the cold wood. It’s a winter afternoon and under the trees it’s already quite dark as they stand next to the car smoking cigarettes.
“Who’re we waiting for?” István asks.
“Just some guys,” Ödön says.
“Are we in Croatia?” István asks, a minute later.
Ödön shrugs.
“It’s fucking cold,” István says, a few minutes later.
“Yeah,” Ödön agrees.
After a while another car comes along the track, from the opposite direction. It’s a small Suzuki jeep with Croatian plates.
“Wait here,” Ödön says. “Keep your eyes open.”
He walks toward the jeep, which has stopped.
Two men get out and they talk. They seem to be speaking English but they talk in quiet voices and István can’t hear what they’re saying.
He can’t see them very well either in the dusky light.
He just stands there, with his hands in his pockets, feeling cold.
His feet, especially, feel very cold.
He’s wearing the wrong sort of shoes.
He looks down at them, and at the half-frozen mud of the track.
Read more of this excerpt...
WORDS TO LIVE BY
2005 ·
NON-FICTION
NEW MUSIC