Excerpt
Tristram was staring incredulously at the young woman's arms, which she held out, in the lamplight, with a curious sort of disdainful pride. She too was, it seemed, fascinated with her disfigured flesh.
"His work," she said, smiling.
"You don't mean Grunwald did this? This? With a tattooing needle?It looks almost professional."
"'Woman is to be adored,' says He."
"What a madman!"
"He is never mad."
. . . Tristram thought it a hellish sight: the intricate, almost rococo pattern of tattoos in the soft pale flesh of the young woman's arms: geometrical shapes, grotesquely stylized flowers and vines, hieroglyphic figures of a kind Tristram had never seen before. (Except perhaps in the margins of medieval or Oriental texts.) Most of the colors were rich and vibrant, with a look of being heated; red, crimson, yellow, gold-yellow, emerald-green, turquoise-blue; others appeared faded. Above the wrists the tattoos ascended in a mad gay tapestry of interweaving and reticulated forms, an indecipherable code. Tristram could barely speak. "Is there more?"
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Reviews
- Kirkus Reviews, January 1, 1995, p22+
- Booklist, January 15, 1995, p869
- Publisher's Weekly, January 23, 1995, p60
- Library Journal, February 15, 1995, p183
- Chicago Tribune, March 5, 1995, 14, 7
- San Francisco Chronicle Review, March 12, 1995, p5
- New York Times Book Review, March 19, 1995, p29
- Washington Post, March 20, 1995, D, 2
- Armchair Detective, Fall 1996, p504
Epigraph
I am another . . . .
RIMBAUD
Other Editions
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