"Caruzo spoke in the tongues of angels, although the fire of his words licked around the ideas he worked to express and often consumed them. Tonight again, he spoke of the children. "Their death pulled," Caruzo said, rocking. "The boy, the girl. Killed as they were. It pulled me and it sent me. Pulled others too. We were like the dry leaves, and their death was a puff of black air. For years I searched for them, and when I found them it all began." He gestured around himself at the park, the darkness. "From a leaf to a lifer," he went on. "That's me. A lifer to a leaf.""

"He burnt himself out eventually and left as he typically did: without offering firm solutions to his riddles and without saying goodnight. He rose from his haunches, turned in the soft grass and vanished into the shadows."(Timothy Taylor. Stanley Park. 10)

:: note :: . . . sometimes fiction is such a delight . . . found this recommended by the Canada Reads panal . . . only a hundred pages in . . . the Vancouver I lived in a decade ago seems caught in a delicate still life . . . it was the endowment lands which took me into some archaic primal mystery . . . Stanley Park was a domesticated, layered myth/mess . . . "But it's a story about being careful what you wish." (january magazine)