Prose

River of Stars

Late autumn, early morning. It is cold, mist rising from the forest floor, sheathing the green bamboo trees in the grove, muffling sounds, hiding the Twelve Peaks to the east. The maple leaves on the way here are red and yellow on the ground, and falling. The temple bells from the edge of town seem distant when they ring, as if from another world.

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Wolf Hall

It is as if they can smell the devil's spit; they are almost jostling each other to get into the air, which is mild, damp: a faint scent of leaves, a green-gold, rustling light. He can see that, in the years ahead, treason will take new and various forms. When the last treason act was made, no one could circulate their words in a printed book or bill, because printed books were not thought of.

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It All Depends

on your point of view.

Wise words, I suppose. So let me do a little thinking about Point of View. Or, P.O.V., as we writers say.

Every story that's told is from someone's point of view. Even works of non-fiction are told from the point of view of the writer, who sifts through mounds and mounds of information and selects those pieces that fit, in some crucial way, into the telling of the tale. Everyone from Herodotus to Gibbon to Caro, from Dante to Melville to George R.R. Martin, has a tale to tell. And every one of them has a point of view.

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