Anthony Valerio

Thinking about the Little Sailor of long ago:

These are the beautiful women who raised me. Who taught me. Happy women and sad. Sainted women and scorned. Lovers appearing in the guise of goddess and sibyl. It's a sensual, picaresque odyssey in which Antonio seeks to hold onto his openness, his innocence, and thereby his ladies and their beauty. To do this, I had to morph into the arch criminal Kasper Gutman and resume the search for the notorious statuette of great riches, the Maltese Falcon.

About The Little Sailor:

The private, woman-filtered experience of communal life, Valerio’s quintessential métier, the animating principal of his entire literary corpus.

Excerpt from The Little Sailor–

The warm tart smell of blueberries wafted in. It must have been a scorching day in July, when blueberries were a-plenty. The dark Italian widow and her son with the hazel eyes and long lashes and powerful shapely legs were coming over. Thrill made a point of finding out exactly when, so that she could make their secret rendezvous appear spontaneous, sashay into the kitchen once the boisterous greetings subsided, grab the Little Sailor by the hand and then lead him out to their secret cache, where, down there, like always, they would thrill.


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