hundreds of horse-dealers congregate in the township of Gros-Morne. And the street they meet in is called De Profundis Street. At least the name gives some warning of what Death will deliver from its lower depths. And it is truly from Death that the astonishing cavalcade comes, from Death in its thousand mean local forms (hunger pains uneased by Para grass, drunken addiction to the distilleries). The impulsive worn-out nags that come from death push their way into Life which opens like a flower. And what galloping! what whinnying! what sincere pisses! what amazing defecations! "A spirited horse, difficult finish him off.
a cosmetic of dust and rheum. jaws and the bone of an old, worn cheek. He was an ungainly Negro without rhythm or measure.
A Negro whose eyes rolled with bloodshot weariness.
A Negro without shame, and his big smelly toes sniggered in the deep gaping lair of his shoes.
Poverty, it has to be said, had taken great pains to She had hollowed the eye socket and painted it with She had stretched the empty space between the solid hinge of the On this she had planted the shiny little bristles of several days' beard. She had maddened the heart and bent the back. And the whole thing added up perfectly to a hideous Negro, a peevish Negro