precise and perfect, not a word left un-perfumed, a prose blessed by this digging type of sensibility capable of transmitting dread more readily than anything I have ever read. the bees were everywhere and in everything, I have thought of swallowing many after this. the bones and the trees and the river were perfectly rebellious, and the Maraldina dwellers complete devil spawn. I cried for the river boys, for the prisoners. all the deaths I have ever called for have warped into a hive so as to hold the nectar of mercè rodoreda’s symbolisms about my soul, the honey for my desire.