A book full of weird people doing weird things, little acts of violence; mental, spiritual, physical, peppered, with blindingly straightforward observance through this odd little book. I’ve missed McCullers and the way she cares about the deeply imperfect, simple and strange people, it’s looking at the real life that you don’t usually get to see, but without any sort of gawking, just with empathy and dignity, even in the face of outright insanity and tragedy. Insane that this was published in 1941.