The Book of the Grotesque
The writer, a man with a hole in his heart, was almost always drunk. He’d hoped the country would cure the habit of drink, but the country had not been successful. He spent his evenings drinking and listening to the nearby woods as it screeched and moved about. Beyond the woods, there were bogs, and where there are bogs, of course, there is the gentle hum of mosquitoes, and beyond, countrysides and citycenters, imaginary towns with real histories, seas that we ought to call oceans and forests that we ought to call woods. But between the woods and bogs, there was a fence and beyond the fence, a gravestone. The story of the gravestone is a story all its own, and no one had ever told the writer whose gravestone it was. As he spun somewhat and as his heart fluttered, something inside echoed and steadied him. It was as if he was pregnant, only deep in his womb, there was a full-grown rather than a little. He somehow came to understand that the full-grown was a woman rather than a man. He often thought of crossing the fence and digging up the ground in front of the gravestone, though he knew the hole in his heart would grow larger and he would himself fall in. The story of the writer is a story of holes, but it is also the story of the full-grown inside who saved him. It is also the story of a little, and it is also the story of a girl and a deer.