“The art of punctuation is of infinite consequence in writing; as it contributes to the perspicuity and consequently to the beauty of every composition.”
This edict of Joseph Robertson was running through Park’s mind like good news. He knew it signaled a return to his former self and his dormant energy. His aunt Sarah had fussed over settling him in the guest room, insisting,
“Rest, you need to rest.”
“No.”
He thought,
“I need to kill somebody.”
And he remembered how the female sergeant had scoffed at his language, had sneered,
“Afraid of a little bad grammar, are we?”
The construction of that sentence infuriated him and the casual way she abused and tore apart the very basics of structure revealed the barbarian she was.
He lay on the bed and ran the rudiments of his favorite ling
