He was a sculptor. He brought things to life with his hands. He could carve a woman’s body from a dead tree. He could carve a rosebud from a dead tree, a cathedral, a rabbit, a soldier, a wand, but he chose her. Inside each of us lurks the thing we did not choose, but what is chosen for us. One day a catalyst for it appears. One day, death. One day, love. Art. And then, you begin.
Twelve India Ink Illustrations by Robert Littleford
“Like Zora Neale Hurston’s ‘Their Eyes Were Watching God’ or Toni Morrison’s ‘Beloved’ (two novels of which I was immediately reminded when I began ‘The Sculptor’), Heffernan has a gorgeous way with words. Similes, metaphors, personifications, and other memorable and, at times, wonderfully jarring imagery fill every page of the work. Heffernan’s style works effectively as she spins an original story of voodoo, mysticism, and real-world racial bigotry and hatred. The book is a satisfying and challenging read, a moody and somber novel-length poem about love, loss, abuse, and a belief in something far beyond what the human world can offer.” – Josh Hancock, indie blogger and author of ‘The Girls of October’
