The Gargoyle

I’ve written so much about the German translation that you might assume there’s nothing exceptional about the Italian original, save its age. I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. There are a few defects in the manuscript’s condition that, while lowering the book’s monetary value, are of considerable interest to me.

It is obvious that the book was in a fire at one point. The pages are singed at the edges, but the flames did not creep far enough inwards to burn away any of the words. Somehow, the book was spared extensive fire damage; in fact, it is the other flaw that is more obvious.

There is a wide cut through the book’s front cover, produced by a sharp instrument. A knife or an arrow, perhaps. The cut penetrates into the book’s body so that when the cover is opened, there is a slit of almost equal size on the first page. This slit, situated in the middle of each page, becomes smaller the deeper one turns into the book. The back cover of the book bears only a small exit wound; it’s apparent that the sharp instrument was almost, but not quite, stopped by the thickness of the manuscript.

It took me a long time to work up the courage to remove my neck chain and insert the arrowhead into the wound of the manuscript’s cover. It slid in perfectly, like a key finding the correct lock. I pushed further until the arrowhead was engulfed by the book and its tip just barely peeked through the slit in the back cover.

These days, I like to imagine that if a man were to enter through that slash on the book’s cover, as if it were a door, he could walk right into the very heart of Inferno.

There were a number of reasons that Jack and I decided not to get a grave for Maria

I don’t want to visit a grave.

Every day I wake up with Bougatsa sleeping at my feet. I feed him raw pancreas, and then we load ourselves into the car to head to the ocean.

I look out over the ocean as the sun rises. It’s my vigil, an hour of the day devoted to remembering Maria

Bougatsa usually runs around, picking up little pieces of driftwood in his mouth and then dropping them at my feet. He begs me to throw them for him, and I do, and then he goes bounding out into the tide. But there are some mornings when he doesn’t feel like ru

All the while, I’m composing in my mind. These pages that you have now read, most of them originated at my lonely command post at the edge of the world where the earth falls into the sea. I have spent much time there, in this grand empty space between memory and desire, creating this cracked empire of sentences in which I now live.

I wanted to write this book to honor her but I have failed, just like all the times that I failed her in life. I know my words are nothing more than pale ghosts, but I need Maria

Every Good Friday, this anchored yet ever-changing a

When Maria

This will mark the third time that an arrow has entered my chest. The first time brought me to Maria

The third time will reunite us.

Ah, but don’t let me sound too serious. I still have a lifetime of work ahead of me.

After Maria

My skills are not nearly as developed as Maria

Standing in front of my likeness still embarrasses me a little, but I remind myself that it is not vanity. I am not looking at myself; I am looking at a part of Maria

The Three Masters stated that Maria

With every fragment of rock that falls from me, I can hear the voice of Maria