Torea Frey

Editor, writer, photographer, observer on the street.

The words, the words

I'm only about 50 pages into Blake Butler's There Is No Year, and progress is impeded again and again as I flip back to reread sentences and passages I can't stop thinking about. The rhythm, the weight, is entrancing:

They purred secret sentences in silent rising spiral until the sky at last had drunk so much it sunk to night---the night not out of cycle but in insistence, demanded in the skin, the unseen smoke of body after body sewn surrounding until the mother, at least could not see---could not feel the air even around her, or her other---could not feel anything at all---and in the dark the mother stuttered---and in the dark again the mother walked.

It reads almost like poetry (dark, haunted stanzas):

He pressed his flesh against the grate's face's metal tines---a mazemap pressed around his eyes. Through the gaps a lukewarm air blew, moist like raindamp, stunk like rice.