Heresy What if our ideas about heaven and hell are wrong, those long-held suppositions, sacred and profane? I’m picturing a little coastal village, say a hundred klicks north of Murmansk, where everybody wears oilskins even in July, and moose and reindeer wander the streets those months when the sun is up, and you can see them. You know the sort of place I mean, the kind depicted in postcards at the Moscow airport, a handful of scruffy shacks with postage stamp gardens looking out to sea, the proud, ice-bearded fisherman holding up his latest catch, one of those obscure locales they call sleepy for no apparent reason, since everybody’s up at dawn untangling their nets and doing the laundry. It takes a while for the locals to accept you, but when they do you’re in like family. They’d give you their last drop of vodka. Maybe it needs to be clarified: we’re discussing the Good Place here. Down Below’s the same, except that the juke box is broken, and there’s no library.
Posted on: Mon, 16 Sep 2013 00:31:36 +0000
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