This is the famous gratuitously cruel Tontine of a story involving a village of 300 souls, children and adults, with collected stones and bits of folded paper in a worn out black box that some say was partly built out of its predecessor box. The unfairness of choice and the eventual ‘prize’ plainly and gratuitously told with skilfully decorative evocations of place and people. The process of literature as one’s ongoing life itself and the duly allotted death of each reader while reading a book partly made from a predecessor book. That glimpse of truth. Words as stones or stories.
Context of this review: https://nemonymousnight.wordpress.com/986-2/