Christelle Dabos

He thinks God’s hand is coming down to hit him, but it ruffles his hair, teasingly.

“You already have been, more than enough if you ask me. I am just looking forward to the wedding being over and you leaving the Pole with your whole family.”

I think we could have all lived happily, in a way, God, me and the others, if it weren’t for that accursed book. It disgusted me. I knew what bound me to it in the most sickening of ways, but the horror of that particular knowledge came later, much later. I didn’t understand straight away, I was too ignorant. I loved God, yes, but I despised that book, which he’d open at the drop of a hat. As for God, he relished it. When God was happy, he wrote. When God was furious, he wrote.