Back then and back home, there among kudzu in the westward cup of Crowley’s Ridge and eastward levees built to keep the river out, I’d been a golden child, headed for greatness–greatness meaning only escape from that town and its mean horizons. I’d ridden the cockhorse of a scholarship down the river to New Orleans, then back up it to Chicago (following the course of jazz) where, once I had secured a fellowship, head and future pointed like twin bullets towards professordom.
This is actually a re-read for I read Sallis’ book when it was first published in 2003. From the book jacket: James Sallis is the author of two dozen volumes of fiction (including the highly praised Lew Griffin novels), poetry, biography, translations, essays, and criticism and writes a regular column for the Boston Globe’s book review section. he lives in Phoenix, Arizona.