Word: flesh
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...probably never saw Silent Witness race in the flesh, and may not have caught him on TV either. For his home was not the dirt tracks of the U.S. or the impossibly green paddocks of Britain and Ireland, but a splendid racing complex set amid skyscrapers in Hong Kong's Sha Tin New Town. To the folk of Hong Kong, a Special Administrative Region of China, Silent Witness was a hero; to true followers of the turf, worldwide, a legend. Now, put to pasture, he deserves to be known for who he really...
Starting the next day, the food got worse. Some days there was just a little dry rice with boiled cabbage, others just some boiled sweet potatoes. Hunger became a permanent state, an ever present hollowness. The flesh on my body slowly melted away, my eyesight deteriorated, and simple activities such as washing clothes exhausted me. From time to time, I was called for special indoctrination and questioning by militant guards. The guards used these occasions to abuse me verbally and to tell me I would be shot soon or kept at the detention house for the rest of my life...
...have a spoon.'' The next morning, when the guard called the prisoners to get up, I felt something sticky and wet on my hands. Turning to the quilt, I saw stains of blood mixed with pus. The handcuffs had already broken my skin and were cutting into my flesh. I shuddered with a real fear of losing the use of my hands. But I figured out how to eat. When the woman from the kitchen offered me the container with rice, I turned my back to the door, and she placed the container in my hands. I took...
...left the cell and locked the door behind them. Slowly I brought my left arm forward and looked at my hand. It was horrible to contemplate. Both hands were swollen to enormous size. The swelling extended to my elbows. Around my wrists where the handcuffs had cut into my flesh, blood and pus continue to ooze out of the wounds. My nails were purple and felt as if they were going to fall off. I touched the back of each hand, only to find the skin and flesh numb. I tried to curl up my fingers but could not because...
...level of the vision. Here's, I promise, my last Feiffer quote: "Eisner's line had weight. Clothing sat on his characters heavily; when they bent an arm, deep folds sprang into action everywhere. When one Eisner character slugged another, a real fist hit real flesh. Violence was not externalized plot exercise; it was the gut of his style. Massive and indigestible, it curdled, lava-like, from the page." As does Feiffer's prose...