Monday, November 28, 2005

deteriora sequitur

We were reading sections of The Death of Cinema by night, stowing the slim volume away in our pillowcases during the day. We read it by the moonlight that came in through the roof where the screened in porch had a big chunk taken out of it from the storm last winter. While we were out working in the day, the chaplain let the bloodhounds rummage through our bunks, but they typically rooted out the more common vices: chocolate, cigarettes, sometimes naughty decks of playing cards. But they never found the book. Sometimes we took turns reading, one person saying the text and another holding the picture up for everyone to see, like children’s hour at the local library. Even Steely-Eyed Driggs, who had spent most of the summer hammering away at his leg irons, started perking up at some of the more exciting parts, sometimes requesting one of the dog-eared copies to gape at the accompanying photographs. "No way," he was gruff as he shook his head, but he was smiling.

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