So I’m halfway through Kai Ashante Wilson’s novella THE SORCERER OF THE WILDEEPS. I’m enjoying it, but I don’t quite know what the hell to do with it.
The following is a paragraph from this book:
That voice! Captain lacked the power of speech, was capable only of song. he could stand dumb, gesturing, or else make incomparable music. Even in a monosyllable, it was possible to hear him struggling to diminish his pure tones, hoarsen their rich clarity; trying to turn his vox seraphica into a thing befitting the vulgar, violent world of a caravan guardsman. But calliphony was as inseparable from the captain’s voice as blood from a living heart, and he could do nothing, try as he might, to make any utterance of his less than the loveliest you’d heard, or would ever hear, as long as you lived.
The following is also a paragraph from this book:
Xho Xho’s disquisition began to cover local outlets for black market and sin. Here as elsewhere, a silver penny was the going rate; but niggas should not sleep on the fact that, up in the piazza after midnight, there would be mad hoes out, offering deep discounts.
Here is some dialogue:
Teef said, “It’s too hot for all this!” as he always did after drills. “Why the fuck Captain got us out here running around, throwing spears and shit, in the HOT ASS MOTHERFUCKEN HEAT?”
Like I said, I don’t know what to do with this book.