Just had to share this one:
He went on. When he reached the crossroads the moon was well up and the intersecting roads lay dusted with silver until they faded into the velvet trees. (p. 73)
Gay gives us texture in shades of grey, sparkling and soft. It also, without saying it, describes a place one would think of as silent, a magical place.
And I’m going back to this one I can’t get out of my head:
The wind was at the trees like something alive and faint light quaked and died, flared and diminished far to the west and he held his breath waiting for the thunder. It finally came, so faint it was like a dream of thunder, a hoarse incoherent whisper, just a madman mumbling to himself in the eaves of the world. (p. 26)
It’s personification of nature, and Gay is not afraid to call the wind "alive" right off the bat. He builds the image with the pulsing lightning, softens it with the words "dream" and "hoarse" as if the wind would be a gentle thing and harmless. Then he gives us the kicker, "just a madman mumbling to himself in the eaves of the world."
There is a feeling you get from this novel that is similar to reading poetry. You find yourself enjoying the language, the flow of words that feel handpicked, thought about carefully before he felt them the perfect way to tell his story.
More about the story later.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology