The parents[…]are getting ready their daughter for sale[…]praying her, and imploring her, and dramming her, and coaxing her.

The day I was there, the Portland Head Light towered in glorious Instagrammability.

[…] they cling, like creepers or women, to the nearest support, to fly from that corroding ennui and listlessness, those tumults of the mind, which flit batlike amid the golden-groined ceilings, and cannot be dispelled by the lictor guard.

The boys resist the Japanese names by which the obasans of the camp address them as willfully as they renounce any identification with the fragmented body of the aged grandfather.