Marie Clay Quotes

My mind is like clay, but thank goodness God knows how to mold it!

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?

We never promised we would stay the same,/But only we would shape our change/From this now single clay.[p. 82]

If we didn't read people who were bastards, we'd never read anything. Even the best of us are at least part-time bastards.

Faith to you was more clay than mortar, and if you could interpret the gospel, so could I. So should anyone. If God wasn’t mad at you for drinking wine and chain-smoking and being a homosexual, he might forgive me for stealing a kitten and trying to hide it under a blanket in the back of our station wagon. Certainly that God was preferable to others who wouldn’t let you in Heaven if you said bad words or drank Mountain Dew.

A new moon lay on its back, and stars were out. Here, away from lights and sounds of town or village, the night was deep, the black sky stretching, fathomless, away among the spheres to some unimaginable world where gods walked, and suns and moons showered down like petals falling. Some power there is that draws men's eyes and hearts up and outward, beyond the heavy clay that fastens them to earth. Music can take them, and the moon's light, and, I suppose, love, though I had not known it then, except in worship.

Lexington wasn't a great city, like Philadelphia or New York, but around the Courthouse square, and along Main Street and Broadway, brick buildings reared two and three stories tall, and it was possible to buy almost anything: breeze-soft silks from France that came upriver from New Orleans, fine wines and cigars, pearl necklaces, and canes with ivory handles shaped like parrots or dogs'-heads or (in the case of Mary's older friend Cash Clay) scantily dressed ladies (but Cash was careful not to carry that one in company).

pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?

Mary Clay said it: “I chose to define reading as a message-getting, problem-solving activity, and writing as a message-sending, problem-solving activity. Both activities involve linking invisible patterns of oral language with visible symbols.

Sally said with wide-eyed innocence, “I think you’re pretty too, Pa.” Clay seemed taken aback for a moment, then he smiled down at Sally and chucked her under the chin with his gloved fist. “Well, thank you darlin’. I reckon that’s about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Consider what story you want to tell. Consider what tale should embody the spirit of our age, when people look back on this time. Will it be the tale of domination that some today sought to write? Or will it be the harmony whose passing my ancient brother immortalized in clay and gold?

The history of art is about how we look. It is not only about the men and women who – with their paints and pencils, their clays and chisels – created the images that fill our world, from cheap trinkets to ‘priceless masterpieces’. It is even more about the generations of humankind who have used, interpreted, argued over and given meaning to those images.

Only to themselves are the passionate hot. To the objects of their passion they are cold. What Yeats knew. They eradicate what they notice, as the thumb hard-crams the clay impressionable under it, to lie flat, apt to the shape their cold-steel scribes may cut or spurn it to. Yet they know passion must drown to ripen sweet & give fair play to the whole life hot passion speeds us from.

Mary Anning and I are hunting fossils on the beach, she her creatures, I my fish. Our eyes are fastened to the sand and rocks as we make our way along the shore at different paces, first one in front, then the other. Mary stops to split open a nodule and find what may be lodged within. I dig through clay, searching for something new and miraculous. We say very little, for we do not need to. We are silent together, each in her own world, knowing the other is just at her back.

I AM NOT EVIL. Then why do you destroy? CLARIFY. You do heinous things. EXPOUND. You kill. THOSE THAT ARE KILLED BECOME ANOTHER THING. Yes, dead! Destroyed. DEFINE DESTROY. To demolish, damage, ruin, kill. DEFINE CREATE. To give rise to, fashion something from nothing, take raw material and invent something new. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS NOTHING. ALL IS SOMETHING. WHERE DOES YOUR “RAW MATERIAL” COME FROM? WAS IT NOT SOMETHING BEFORE YOU FORCED IT TO BECOME SOMETHING ELSE? Clay is just a lump of clay before an artist molds it into a beautiful vase. LUMP. BEAUTIFUL. OPINION. SUBJECTIVE. THE CLAY WAS SOMETHING. PERHAPS YOU WERE AS UNIMPRESSED WITH IT AS I AM BY HUMANS, YET YOU CANNOT DENY IT WAS ITS ESSENTIAL SELF. YOU SMASHED IT, STRETCHED IT, PULLED IT, SMELTED IT, DYED IT, AND FORCED IT TO BECOME SOMETHING ELSE. YOU IMPOSED YOUR WILL UPON IT. AND YOU CALL THIS CREATION? I TAKE A BEING AND MAKE ITS MOLECULES REST. HOW IS THAT NOT CREATION? IT WAS ONE THING AND IS ANOTHER. ONCE IT ATE, NOW IT IS EATEN. DID I NOT CREATE SUSTENANCE FOR ANOTHER WITH ITS NEW STATE? CAN THERE BE ANY ACT OF CREATION THAT DOES NOT FIRST DESTROY? VILLAGES FALL. CITIES RISE. HUMANS DIE. LIFE SPRINGS FROM THE SOIL WHEREIN THEY LIE. IS NOT ANY ACT OF DESTRUCTION, SHOULD TIME ENOUGH PASS, AN ACT OF CREATION?

He set her down and held her steady until he was sure she wasn’t dizzy, then he turned on the girls, growled at them, and charged. They squealed and ran, but they didn’t run out of the room. They just dashed around in circles, colliding with each other. Clay snagged Mandy first, and while he held her and tickled her with his whiskery face, Laura toddled up and latched on to his leg. Being careful not to shake her loose while he dragged her around after the others almost made it a fair fight. He grabbed Beth when she danced too close, then, with his hands full, Sally jumped on his back. By the time they were done, Clay was flat on the kitchen floor, buried under three sets of petticoats and one soggy diaper. He remembered his first impression when he’d regained consciousness in that awful shed, that he’d died and he was surrounded by angels. He hadn’t been far from wrong.

Alice told Shadow a magical tale of the green wreath and the red ribbon. In the story, Father Sky, who reigned over the spirit, came to Mother Earth, who bore the form of a woman of clay named Mary. Sky and Earth married, and together they conceived a beautiful star child made of both spirit and earth. The Star Child grew up and walked the world. The child of Father Sky and Mother Earth taught the world to live with the spirit in their clay hearts. Alice said the red of the holiday bow signified the Star Child’s sacrifice, and the green balsam of the wreath signified the everlasting life that was for all people born to the spirit of Father Sky. Shadow loved the story. It reminded him of his own sweet mother and the tales of Thunderbird who flew the skies in bird form in service to Gitche Manitou. Thunderbird was Shadow’s guardian, just like Shadow was the guardian for Theo. Shadow adored the season of light. He always felt warm and cozy when it came around.

The homeward ride’s camaraderie was marred only by the fact that someone near the back of the bus started the passing around of a Gothic-fonted leaflet offering the kingdom of prehistoric England to the man who could pull Keith Freer out of Bernadette Longley. Freer had been discovered by prorector Mary Esther Thode more or less Xing poor Bernadette Longley under an Adidas blanket in the very back seat on the bus trip to the East Coast Clays in Providence in September, and it had been a nasty scene, because there were some basic Academy-license rules that it was just unacceptable to flout under the nose of staff. Keith Freer was deeply asleep when the leaflet was getting passed around, but Bernadette Longley wasn’t, and when the leaflet hit the front half where all the females now had to sit since September she’d buried her face in her hands and flushed even on the back of her pretty neck, and her doubles partner 92 came all the way back to where Jim Struck and Michael Pemulis were sitting and told them in no uncertain terms that somebody on this bus was so immature it was really sad

a brief history of art Cave paintings. Clay then bronze statues. Then for about 1,400 years, people painted nothing except bold but rudimentary pictures of either the Virgin Mary and Child or the Crucifixion. Some bright spark realised that things in the distance looked smaller and the pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Crucifixion improved hugely. Suddenly everyone was good at hands and facial expression and now the statues were in marble. Fat cherubs started appearing, while elsewhere there was a craze for domestic interiors and women standing by windows doing needlework. Dead pheasants and bunches of grapes and lots of detail. Cherubs disappeared and instead there were fanciful, idealised landscapes, then portraits of aristocrats on horseback, then huge canvasses of battles and shipwrecks. Then it was back to women lying on sofas or getting out of the bath, murkier this time, less detailed then a great many wine bottles and apples, then ballet dancers. Paintings developed a certain splodginess - critical term - so that they barely resembled what they were meant to be. Someone signed a urinal, and it all went mad. Neat squares of primary colour were followed by great blocks of emulsion, then soup cans, then someone picked up a video camera, someone else poured concrete, and the whole thing became hopelessly fractured into a kind of confusing, anything-goes free for all.

42The angels said to Mary: ‘Mary, God has chosen you and made you pure: He has truly chosen you above all women. 43Mary, be devout to your Lord, prostrate yourself in worship, bow down with those who pray.’ 44This is an account of things beyond your knowledge that We reveal to you [Muhammad]: you were not present among them when theyc cast lots to see which of them should take charge of Mary, you were not present with them when they argued [about her]. 45The angels said, ‘Mary, God gives you news of a Word from Him, whose name will be the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, who will be held in honour in this world and the next, who will be one of those brought near to God. 46He will speak to people in his infancya and in his adulthood. He will be one of the righteous.’ 47She said, ‘My Lord, how can I have a son when no man has touched me?’ [The angel] said, ‘This is how God creates what He will: when He has ordained something, He only says, "Be", and it is. 48He will teach him the Scripture and wisdom, the Torah and the Gospel, 49He will send him as a messenger to the Children of Israel: "I have come to you with a sign from your Lord: I will make the shape of a bird for you out of clay, then breathe into it and, with God’s permission, it will become a real bird; I will heal the blind and the leper, and bring the dead back to life with God’s permission; I will tell you what you may eat and what you may store up in your houses.

When the Kingdom Comes Your mother is not your mother, she is something else, a bird nesting in the heart of a hollowed out tree, a saint whose skin is cool and soft as apple-flesh, the will of God. And your brothers are not your brothers, they are the ash that is all of us, scattered in its periphery, unfortunate multitude. Your sister, your lover, your friend none of these are yours. The stone belongs only to the river which bled it smooth. What you call your face, that canvas of mercy which smiles with grief at even November's drizzle and chill, is the face of someone else, someone to come, good tidings, the Christ child in a stable, cooing as Mary tends such tiny hands. It is her face that seems so familiar, the answer to everything whetting the tip of your tongue. The hairs on your head, they belong only to themselves, and when they are done with such a manner of belonging, they offer themselves to stars which outnumber them galacticly. Everything you think is yours is not. A father had two sons, and one of them was heavy with desire. Friend—what's lost is found, forever. You will wear the very best robe. You will wear rings on every finger of each hand. And they are not your hands. They are God's hands and She formed you with them Herself turning tricks with clay until finally the sand sang alleluia, and it was good. These hands, She will hold like treasure all the way to Paradise, where under the glimmer of the moon and the spark of light that fuels every prayer, She keeps her family. And we will all be there. And we will all be.

Don’t provoke Cheat,” Arin said as they stepped out of the carriage and onto the dusky path that led to the governor’s palace, which looked eerie to Kestrel because its impressive façade was the same as the night before, but the lights burning in the windows were now few. “Kestrel, do you hear me? You can’t toy with him.” “He started it.” “That’s not the point.” Gravel crunched under Arin’s heavy boots as he stalked up the path. “Don’t you understand that he wants you dead? He’d leap at the chance,” Arin said, hands in pockets, head down, almost talking to himself. He strode ahead, his long legs quicker than hers. “I can’t--Kestrel, you must understand that I would never claim you. Calling you a prize--my prize--it was only words. But it worked. Cheat won’t harm you, I swear that he won’t, but you must…hide yourself a little. Help a little. Just tell us how much time we have before the battle. Give him a reason to decide you’re not better off dead. Swallow your pride.” “Maybe that’s not as easy for me as it is for you.” He wheeled on her. “It’s not easy for me,” he said through his teeth. “You know that it’s not. What do you think I have had to swallow, these past ten years? What do you think I have had to do to survive?” They stood before the palace door. “Truly,” she said, “I haven’t the faintest interest. You may tell your sad story to someone else.” He flinched as if slapped. His voice came low: “You can make people feel so small.” Kestrel went hot with shame--then was ashamed of her own shame. Who was he, that she should apologize? He had used her. He had lied. Nothing he said meant anything. If she was to feel shame, it should be for having been so easily fooled. He ran fingers through his cropped hair, but slowly, anger gone, replaced by something heavier. He didn’t look at her. His breath smoked the chill air. “Do what you want to me. Say anything. But it frightens me how you refuse to see the danger you risk with others. Maybe now you’ll see.” He opened the door to the governor’s home. The smell struck her first. Blood and decaying flesh. It pushed at Kestrel’s gut. She fought not to gag. Bodies were piled in the reception hall. Lady Neril was lying facedown, almost in the same place where she had stood the night of the ball, greeting guests. Kestrel recognized her by the scarf in her fist, fabric bright in the guttering torchlight. There were hundreds of dead. She saw Captain Wensan, Lady Faris, Senator Nicon’s whole family, Benix… Kestrel knelt next to him. His large hand felt like cold clay. She could hear her tears drip to his clothes. They beaded on his skin. Quietly, Arin said, “He’ll be buried today, with the others.” “He should be burned. We burn our dead.” She couldn’t look at Benix anymore, but neither could she get to her feet. Arin helped her, his touch gentle. “I’ll make certain it’s done right.” Kestrel forced her legs to move, to walk past bodies heaped like rubble. She thought that she must have fallen asleep after all, and that this was an evil dream. She paused at the sight of Irex. His mouth was the stained purple of the poisoned, but he had sticky gashes in his side, and one final cut to the neck. Even poisoned, he had fought. Tears came again. Arin’s hold tightened. He pushed her past Irex. “Don’t you dare weep for him. If he weren’t dead, I would kill him myself.

He’s a low-down scoundrel! He accused Cliff of being a horse thief, refused to chase after the posse that hung him, and asked me to marry him, all in the same breath!” A woman could sure get upset over the least little thing. “Now, darlin’, don’t get all fussed about that.” “Fussed! About a man calling Cliff a horse thief,” Sophie stormed. “I will never stand by and listen to talk like that!” Clay carefully reached for his hat, hoping Sophie wouldn’t notice he was planning to run for it. She was fuming at him with her back mostly turned, only peering over her shoulder once in a while to scorch him with a furious look. Clay tried to placate her. “After all, the man had a job to do, Sophie darlin’, and what man wouldn’t want you to marry him?” There, a little flattery. Wasn’t that what women wanted?

What are you doing?” Sophie jumped at his harsh tone and whacked her thumb. “Ow!” She grabbed her finger and looked at it for a minute, then stuffed the tip into her mouth and glared at him. Clay forgot his temper and chuckled at the sight. “There is nothing funny about me smashing myself with a hammer!” she growled around her thumb. “You look like Laura sucking her thumb. It’s cute.” Clay smiled at his wife. Her hair was bedraggled. She had on her stained work dress. She was wearing boots five sizes too big for her, and she was wildly irritated. He thought about how pretty she was and wondered if he could tease a kiss out of her. “Cute?” Sophie withdrew her thumb, scowled, and bent over to go back to work on the board. Clay remembered why he’d hollered at her to begin with. His amusement faded. “I’ll do that. You wouldn’t have hurt your thumb if you’d been doing the work God intends for a woman to do. Get back in the house!

Where did you get the outlandish notion that we were getting married?” “Outlandish notion?” Clay’s brows shot up. “We talked about it. You said yes. What do you think I went to town for?” “The parson?” Sophie screeched. “Yes,” Clay answered in a sarcastic drawl. “The parson!” “We have not talked about getting married.” Sophie jabbed Clay in the chest with her index finger. “I think I would have remembered a proposal!” Clay grabbed her hand. He must not like being poked. Good. She’d remember that if she ever needed his attention again. Clay got a very thoughtful look on his face. “I asked you if you knew what we had to do.” “Yes, but I can’t imagine how you got, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you’ out of that brief exchange.” Clay released her hand, lifted his Stetson, and ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it before setting his hat back on. “I asked you if you were a God-fearing woman,” Clay added. “And I am one.” Sophie crossed her arms, stiffened her jaw, and waited for the man to make some sense. “Well, we have to get married!” Clay said tersely. “So that’s what I meant when I asked you if you knew what we had to do. What did you think I meant?” “I had no idea!” Sophie could hardly remember him making the comment.

Why doesn’t it matter?” Clay shrugged. “ ’Cuz we’re getting married right now, whether you understood what I wanted or not.

Clay said, “Okay, you can come on one condition. . .” “Anything,” Sally said, clapping her hands together joyfully. “If you come, you gotta call me ‘Pa.’ ” Clay tried to sound stern, but a grin broke out on his face as he said it. Sally’s eyes got as bright and round as double eagle coins. For a second she looked so awestruck Clay was afraid she was going to swoon or something. Then she said fervently, “I’d be right proud to call you ‘Pa,’ Pa.” “Can we call you ‘Pa,’ too?” Beth asked. Clay drawled, “Well, I reckon that’s what I am now, your pa, so I’d say you’d better get to calling me that.

Are they supposed to cry so much and giggle every second when they’re not crying? They never quit finding something so funny that I thought it’d break my eardrums a few times. And Laura pitched a daisy of a fit when Beth tried to give her a bath. Then Beth asked me to help, but Laura was stark naked, and I didn’t think that was proper, so I said no. Then, well, maybe I said no a little. . .loud. Beth started crying.” Clay ran his hands into his hair and made it stand up on end.

Well, it’s not gonna be like that this time. There’ll be a doctor, and there’ll be no creek, nor a thicket!” Clay seemed to gather his wits about him. “And you’re not gonna do anything that might hurt you or the baby.” He seemed happiest when he was issuing orders, so Sophie let him. His eyes suddenly got serious—serious to the point of frantic. He grabbed both her arms and almost beseeched her, “You’re going to sit in that house and rock in a rocking chair and rest!” “Clay, we don’t own a rocking chair.” “I’ll build you one.

Clay caught her hand as she reached for his arm and held it tight. “And the girls can get a meal on, or we’ll go eat in the bunkhouse. I want you to rest.” “Clay, I don’t need to rest.” Sophie dabbed at his oozing wound. “There is nothing in the. . .” Sophie realized her fingers were going numb as Clay squeezed tighter and tighter. “The girls can do it. They have a stew already done, so they just need to mix up biscuits and set the table.” She was talking fast at the end. Clay released her. Sophie sighed with relief and had to control the urge to rub her hand. She arched one eyebrow at her husband. “Good girl,” he said, like she was a well-behaved horse.

Clay came in and sat on the bed beside her. “Adam and Luther said something was wrong.” Sophie couldn’t hold back a smile even though the tears didn’t quit flowing. Clay rubbed a rough thumb across one cheek. His touch was so gentle that Sophie felt as if she were made of the finest crystal. “Please don’t cry, Sophie darlin’. You know I can’t stand cryin’.” His sweetness and concern made the tears flow faster. “When you cry I feel like some kind of a monster who has hurt you or scared you half to death or. . .” Sophie lunged forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard to get him to quit talking crazy. She pulled back and smiled at his stunned expression. Softly enough to ensure privacy in the crowded house, she said, “A woman doesn’t always cry when she’s sad or hurt, Clay. I was lying here thinking that God gave me a miracle when he sent Adam, Luther, and Buff to me.

Try an’ get some rest, darlin’.” Clay pressed her back against her pillow. Sophie nodded. Clay stood and took a couple of steps toward the door. He paused and looked back at her, and then he awkwardly came back, leaned over, and kissed her on the forehead, then the cheek, then her lips. He brushed her hair back again. “You and the girls, and this life I’ve got myself into, will always be a miracle to me, Sophie.

Smiling for the first time all day, he came in to supper, slung an arm around Sophie’s waist, and gave her a loud smack on the lips. “The cattle are settled in the summer pasture. Tomorrow I start working around the place, repairing and adding here and there. The men will be able to help, too. I hope you didn’t do all the man’s work yourself, Sophie darlin’. You did leave something for me, didn’t you?” “Clay, you’re filthy.” Sophie slapped at Clay’s chest, but he could tell by her grin that she was pleased with his attention. “It’s hard work and honest dirt, darlin’. Let me share a little with you.” Clay pulled her closer, but she jumped back, grabbed a ladle off the stove, and waved it threateningly at him, failing to suppress a smile. The girls started giggling, and maybe for the first time, Clay didn’t mind it at all.

Sophie McClellen,” Clay said so grimly, it got her undivided attention. “Yes, Clay?” She was surprised she had such an obedient tone at her disposal. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut, what’s say we talk about what you were doing up here when I told you to stay in the house and rest!” He’d started out whispering, but by the time he was done, he’d built to a roar.

What’s the matter?” “They’re fighting again.” Sophie cocked her head a bit to listen to the squabbling that distance had nearly erased. “You call that little spat fighting?” “What do you call it?” he asked impatiently. Sophie shrugged. “There isn’t room for any of the girls on that seat, and they all know it, so they’re just making noise. I didn’t pay it any mind.” She walked up to him and patted him on the arm. “That’s just how little girls are. You’ll get used to it soon enough.” Clay nodded silently for a while, then turned to go to the wagon. As he walked out Sophie heard him mutter, “I’ll get used to it or go deaf. In the end, I reckon that’s the same thing.

Clay looked at Sally and crouched in front of her. “Let me see your hand, darlin’.” Sally held her palm up. The bruising was dark, and there were several cuts in her tender flesh. Pa gave her hand a kiss then lifted her into his strong arms as he rose and hugged her tight. He pulled back far enough to look her square in the eye. “You could have told me. I’d’ve listened. You’re not a little girl to tell lies, and I’d’ve trusted you.” Sally’s eyes filled with tears, and she flung her arms around her pa’s neck. Beth thought Sally might squeeze the life out of him. “Now you know better ’n to cry, Sally.” Pa patted her on the back. “Remember rule number one.

Qur'an 5:110: When Allah will say: O Jesus, son of Mary, remember My favour to thee and to thy mother, when I strengthened thee with the Holy Spirit; thou spokest to people in the cradle and in old age, and when I taught thee the Book and the Wisdom and the Torah and the Gospel, and when thou didst determine out of clay a thing like the form of a bird by My permission, then thou didst breathe into it and it became a bird by My permission; and thou didst heal the blind and the leprous by My permission; and when thou didst raise the dead by My permission; and when I withheld the Children of Israel from thee when thou camest to them with clear arguments -- but those of them who disbelieved said: This is nothing but clear enchantment.

Running records capture what young readers say and do while reading continuous text, usually short stories or books. Having taken the record teachers can review what happened immediately, leading to teaching decisions on the spot, or at a later time as they plan for next lessons.

You have been led astray, my child, by the conflicting and vain opinions of mankind. You, like many others in the world, delight to question, to speculate, to weigh this, to measure that, with little or no profit to yourself or your fellow-creatures. And you have come freshly from a land where, in the great Senate-house, a poor perishable lump of clay calling itself a man, dares to stand up boldly and deny the existence of God, while his compeers, less bold than he, pretend a holy displeasure, yet secretly support him — all blind worms denying the existence of the sun; a land where so-called Religion is split into hundreds of cold and narrow sects, gatherings assembled for the practice of hypocrisy, lip-service and lies — where Self, not the Creator, is the prime object of worship; a land, mighty once among the mightiest, but which now, like an over-ripe pear, hangs loosely on its tree, awaiting but a touch to make it fall!

She now discovered amidst them, the poet's flights of fancy, and the historian's seldom pleasing—ever instructive page. The first may transmit to posterity the records of a sublime genius, which once flashed in strong, but transient rays, through the tenement of clay it was given a moment to inhabit: and though the tenement decayed and the spirit fled, the essence of a mind which darted through the universe to cull each created and creative image to enrich an ever-varying fancy, is thus snatched from oblivion, and retained, spite of nature, amidst the mortality from which it has struggled, and is freed. The page of the historian can monarchs behold, and not offer up the sceptre to be disencumbered of the ponderous load that clogs their elevation! Can they read of armies stretch upon the plain, provinces laid waste, and countries desolated, and wish to be the mortal whose vengeance, or whose less fierce, but fatal decision sent those armies forth!

This -- this religion of theirs -- was filthy; ugly, like the shiny black covers of their Bibles where their fingers left a grey, greasy smear. Filthy and frightful; like funerals. You might as well be buried alive, five coffins deep in a pit of yellow clay.

Marie Clay (1993) refers to this as attending to the “partially correct.” Its significance cannot be overstated.

ELVIS PRESLEY’S COLON is not on display in a glass case, but you can get a good sense of what it looked like by reading the autopsy section of The Death of Elvis. “As Florendo cut, he found that this megacolon was jam-packed from the base of the descending colon all the way up and halfway across the transverse colon. . . . The impaction had the consistency of clay and seemed to defy Florendo’s efforts with the scissors to cut it out.” Nichopoulos was at the autopsy and remembers the moment. The clayey material, he says, was barium, administered to prep Presley for a set of X-rays—taken four months earlier. “That barium was . . .” He gestures toward the fireplace. “Just like a rock.” He says the impaction obstructed at least 50 to 60 percent of the diameter of Presley’s colon.