1.
The slant of morning light made him look like he was about to catch on fire.
Every Sunday he was there. A singular, solitary figure—but not sad and not lonely. And not tragic. He became the main character of a story I was writing in my head. The first sentence would read, Some people are so beautiful that they belong everywhere they go.
I always noticed what he was reading: Dostoyevsky, Kazantzakis, Faulkner. He was in love with serious literature. And tragedy. Well, he lived on the border. And on the border you could be in love with tragedy without being tragic.
