“Ragbone! Ragbone! Any rags! Pots for rags! Donkey stone!” opens this strange and miraculous tale, which somehow reads as part fairy tale, part fantasy, and part lyrical poem all in the same spare breaths. I can’t say with any clarity what this book is doing; but I can say that whatever it is, it’s enchanting.
It is right that the murder of many people be mourned and lamented.
Even the best weapon is an unhappy tool.
What do they do, the singers, tale-writers, dancers, painters, shapers, makers?
Five principles for embracing uncertainty.
Where to give all your precious fucks.
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