Butcher's Crossing, John Williams | fiction, revisionist western

This is an existential/nihilist western largely about bison slaughter and the misplaced idealisation of the west. Four men set out to harvest bison hides for a steep profit and return from their expedition never-the-same-again: that is the bare-bones plot. Survivalist at times, short, and well-written. I took my time with this one. There were several parts where I had to set it down (whether because of the gruesomeness of it or the absolutely decadent quality of writing--sometimes both).

Andrews nodded. He looked at Charley Hoge, and beyond him; he was drowsy with the heat and with the warm effects of the whiskey he had drunk; in his mind were fragments of Miller's talk about the mountain country to which they were going, and those fragments glittered and turned and fell softly in accidental and strange patterns. Like the loose stained bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, they augmented themselves with their turning and found the light from irrelevant and accidental sources.

Kinski Uncut, Klaus Kinski | nonfiction, autobiography

The autobiography of notorious German actor Klaus Kinski. Perverted, incestuous, volatile, manic: this is the image he presents of himself. Published after his death, the book is thought to be largely performative rather than autobiographical.

After a while I cautiously emerge. I do that until the photographer gets fed up and leaves. For a long time I haven't wanted to be photographed by anyone. I don't want anyone to photograph my soul, which is being etched more and more deeply into my face.

The Elementals, Michael McDowell | horror, southern gothic

The Savage and McCray families have visited the Beldame estate for years. One house for the Savages. One house for the McCrays. And the third house... no one knows who used to live there. After the death of the Savage matriarch, the families withdraw to Beldame in Gulf Shores, AL for the summer. The heat is oppressive, the tide is high, and the sand is white as sugar.

No one looks at the third house.

Leigh turned on the bedside light and read a Cosmopolitan that was dated fifteen months back. Dauphin fell asleep with his head buried in her side, and his arm reaching across her breast. Even his feet were tangled in her legs--for protection against the third house.

(This is a haunted house story and was one of those books that left me at a loss for what to read next. I didn't want to read anything else for a bit, because I wanted to sit with this story. That's how much I liked it. Maybe it's because I'm from Alabama though).