This is exquisite, Gavin. I confess I’m not much of a rereader. One of the great regrets of mortality is that the span of a life could never permit time enough to read all the things we might want to.

I’d make an exception for The Road, though, for who could get bored of reading prose like this? Again and again…

“Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”