By J. R. Salamanca

LILITH is a powerfully drawn portrait of innocence corrupted through evil-an evil so remarkable, so attractive, so imaginatively conceived that even its violence and amorality have a ravishing elegance in their personal. this can be the evil of Lilith, a wildly deranged younger lady who creates for herself a wierd paradise of fable, poetry, and keenness which she inhabits instead of the true global. Her global has its personal language, its personal philosophy, its personal song and artwork, all exquisitely developed and richly sensual of their layout. And it has its personal faith, a faith which calls for an insidious and dreadful kind of human sacrifice.

First released in 1961, LILITH immediately grew to become a vintage of yankee literature, with over a million copies in print and a 1964 movie variation of an analogous identify starring Warren Beatty and Jean Seberg.

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It used to be a fresh, beautiful, leisurely city in vital Maryland, with extensive streets and two-story body homes with nice cool, awning-shaded porches. For subsistence it depended almost always upon the grain and dairy items of the rolling grassy farmland which surrounded it. The wheat was once sacked and shipped from a wide advertisement grain elevator on the fringe of town; a spur line bumped into it from the Baltimore & Ohio Railway, and one of many delights of my boyhood used to be to collect the names of roadbeds from the boxcars status within the yards. I bear in mind how shiny the rails have been within the solar, the sprinkle of brass-colored wheat and grain airborne dirt and dust that blew approximately within the cinders, the silent yawning vastness of the empty autos with their steel-bound planks and hieroglyphic inscriptions of tonnage, load weight, cubic content material etc; and the sweetness and secret in their names—to an inland boy as appealing because the names of ships to a coastal dweller—Wabash, Santa Fe, nice Northern, Seaboard Air Line. and that i can take into accout but the fast brilliant thrill of pleasure on seeing for the 1st time a legend unknown to me: The Hiawatha, direction of the Buffaloes. Our district was once additionally recognized for its fruit, and at harvest time i might frequently paintings as a picker within the apple and peach orchards of the geographical region. For this paintings i used to be paid a buck an afternoon, loads of cash for a boy in these occasions; yet I should still rather—for the thoughts it has given me of lengthy September days, status on my ladder waist-deep in sweet-scented oceans of Elberta leaves, of heavy yellow peaches, scorching with solar, softly furred and blushed with bluish purple, and of nation ladies with brown hands and blowing hair, part hidden through the branches, making a song ballads within the tops of apple trees—for those thoughts I may still particularly have paid the proprietors of these enchanted orchards. Our city, also known as Stonemont, used to be the county seat. Its major highway was once specified by an inverted L, just like the circulation of a knight on a chessboard. On its shorter, reduce, phase, set a long way again from the road on a excessive garden to which a flight of 5 stone steps ascended from the sidewalk, stood the county courthouse, an outdated development of rose-colored brick, its two-columned portico paved with foot-worn stone and shadowed via great elms. at once in entrance of it the most road was once divided via a slim island on which, dealing with the courthouse, stood the statue of a accomplice soldier, his palms crossed upon his breast, his face shadowed through a slouch hat, one foot put ahead with a glance of noble solution which won in pathos from the shabbiness of his tattered uniform and the empty scabbard that hung opposed to his thigh. underneath him, at the tall granite pedestal, was once inscribed a legend which I by no means did not reread whilst I handed and which by no means did not supply me an analogous hot glow of tragic delight: TO OUR HEROES OF POPE COUNTY That We via existence won't overlook to like the skinny grey Line the higher section of the road used to be maybe 5 blocks in size, and covered with the institutions popular to all small cities: a barbershop; a small, false-fronted motion-picture condominium; the us put up workplace, ahead of which an American flag hung over the sidewalk, casting, on windy days, its writhing, tormented shadow—a convulsive ghost—upon the pavement; a ironmongery shop; an autonomous grocery and a two-story stuccoed workplace development with worn wood corridors, open at both finish to the afternoon sun.

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