A French Army captain writes to his daughter.
Among the purposes for this letter: to set the record straight on the surprisingly accurate hollowed-out bullet, which he invented (or co-invented with that noble drunken womanizer Delvigne). I read this story, thought about it awhile and re-read it. It’s short and oddly heavy, like every piece in this collection I’ve read so far. Or maybe every letter written in italics on thick card stock comes haunted by a somber undertow, regardless of the content. Because there’s a lot of humor here, too.
Ben Greenman’s doing a reading at 7 p.m. at Brickbat Books here in Philly tomorrow. I’m going.