Thursday, November 1, 2012

Phraselet No. 133

A mile from the village of Zennor, south of the promontory known as Gunard's Head, the Cornish coast concertinas in a series of narrow coves and jagged inlets. The beaches -- it's a stretch to call them beaches -- are shingle and stone and even a full day of sun leaves them literally and figuratively cold. The onyxy water would be mildly amused by you drowning in it. Local teenagers stymied into near autism or restless violence come here and drink and smoke and make fires and work with numb yearning through the calculus of fornication.

- Glen Duncan, The Last Werewolf

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