all the king's men

I looked up and saw that however far I felt I had traveled, I was only on page 3.

This was just the kind of reading my brother loves - and the kind of poetry he puts out. Thick and swift. Words that work and row and sing and dance together in rich, heavy gowns of purple syllables. You lick your lips and purse them together for the sweetness and the density of the way the words feel on your eyes and reading them makes you sort of quiver at how they shake out into pretty patterns. I felt like I was digging in deep clay soil, wet and oily and intoxicating, with bare hands. I got to page 3 and felt I had downed a pint's worth of literary sweetened condensed milk, but I had to keep reading - I had to, or I might not come back before my Sunday sleep overtook me. Reading through the cornfields and upholstery and the chestnut and crimson landscapes and creamy faces I made it to page 6 where the momentum of the molasses bath of words I had plummeted into began to whisk me along a sweet and bold narrative.

Dad had decided to get this book for me this year. It is part of a tradition we have. We call them 'Dad Gifts' and they are usually something kind of practical, yet still sentimental. A hat, a book, some music. He gives them out at the breakfast table on Christmas Day. After consulting my very well-read brother about blockbuster books, Dad selected All The King's Men. I started reading a bit of it and had to really peer my eyes into the first sentences. Though I am an English major, it had been a while since I'd read a sentence 12 lines long and pieced together with 8 commas and should have included probably 8 more comas to prevent so much run-on. "Run-on?!" my brother would exclaim, notably offended. I know, I know. I need to read more American lit.