Journey To The End Of The Night

Journey To The End Of The Night

The sky in Rancy is the same as in Detroit, a smoky soup that bathes the plain all the way to Levallois. Cast-off buildings bogged down in black muck. From a distance the chimneys, big ones and little ones, look like the fat stakes that rise out of the muck by the...
The Machine Stops

The Machine Stops

“And even the lecturers acquiesced when they found that a lecture on the sea was none the less stimulating when compiled out of other lectures that had already been delivered on the same subject. “Beware of first-hand ideas!” exclaimed one of the most advanced of...
Journey To The End Of The Night

Journey To The End Of The Night

Here’s how it started. I’d never said a word. Not one word. It was Arthur Ganate that made me speak up. Arthur was a friend from med school. So we meet on the Place Clichy. It was after breakfast. He wants to talk to me. I listen. “Not out...
French Exit

French Exit

“I’ve just been out riding my bicycle,” Malcolm said. “What bicycle?” “Frances bought me one for Christmas.” “That’s sad. Where are you?” “Next to the canal. Want to know what I’m looking at?” “Not really. All right.” “Right in front of me there’s a boatload of...
Brit(ish)

Brit(ish)

In the 1770s, a talented black man – born a slave, mid-Atlantic, on a ship – whose friends included the artist Thomas Gainsborough, the writer Samuel Johnson, and the Duke and Duchess of Montagu, set up a gro- cery store on King Charles Street. Ignatius Sancho’s...