"The King of Sentences"by Jonathan LethemThe King moved to the door. We stood in our bare feet, wobbling slightly, goose-pimpled, still breathing out clouds of expectation like frost-breath.
“That’s all?” Clea said.
“That’s all, you ask? Yes, that’s all. That’s more than enough.”
“You’re leaving us here.”
“I am.”
He closed the door carefully, not slamming it. Clea and I waited an appropriate interval, then turned and clung to each other in a kind of rapture. Understanding, abruptly and at last, just what it takes to be King. How much, in the end, it actually costs. ♦
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"This is the town of the King of Sentences."
"This little town."
"He could be watching us now, don't act stupid. With a telescope."
We blundered along something called Main Street, seeking the post office, until a passerby directed us to Warburton Avenue.
(another):
"He's the greatest maker of sentences in the United States of America," I said.
"I've had a look," the Chief said.
"He's not bad. I'm just wondering if you ever troubled with the content of his books, as opposed to just the sentences."
"Sentences are content," Clea said.
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