Try making bread, everyone said. Flour, salt, water, heat. Tap the veins of civilization and marvel at the primal embers of human…
A brief afternoon shower, not even enough to cool the air, and after it passes Spenser is struck by the way the summer light clings to…
Most pleasures are very simple.
He rarely looks you in the eye.
It’s not a phobia. Don’t call it that. Phobia suggests something unalterable, something born in the blood, and this isn’t that. Phobia is…
Last night as he rolled and bucked and grappled with the covers, Spenser was temporarily dazzled by the static sparks crackling from…
Shhhh. Calm your mind. Don’t stir the embers.
Look at this shit. Come on. Move, goddamn it. Just move.
The hitch in his stride. The broken lope. The funky, middle-aged gait of a man who spends a bit of time each evening thinking about the…
A colleague passes on a book: the first English translation of The Crown, The Serpent, The Knife, The Bone (New York and London, Parallel…