What is a sentence?


There’s somethin’ might strange ’bout how words put together. Don’t always, mayhaps—but oft times just ’nuff. Take a speakin’ man, for one. How gets he his things said? He pick ’em all through, one-one, like they’s weeds? Or they just fall from ‘im like stars? Heaven knows; it’d be sendin’ ’em.

Mayhaps… Mayhaps neither. Could be’s no speakin’ man at all. Just us eyes. Eyes for seein’ what’s writ.

Some folk talk on beginnin’s ‘n’ things. How they be. What they are. How things get on. Some talks on things like “predestined”—whether we be, been, is, was, are, will ever, or were—brain ‘n’ bones, born to buried, body ‘n’ words ‘n’ all. D’mean a right awful to a speakin’ man (hell, a prayin’ man); d’be no god but us tongues—readin’ scripts o’ life like canned lines. ‘Til curtain call. All ever said a right farce.

Mayhaps. ‘Stead o’ wit or wisdom. Words fit only as could: sublime.

—Barry (“Bear”)