Paragraph Of The Day: Rick Bragg Edition

One of the South’s best prose stylists, Rick Bragg, has written a biography of the crazy rock and roll legend, Jerry Lee Lewis. There’s an excerpt in the Guardian and this paragraph is pure gold:

“There was rockabilly. There was Elvis. But there was no pure rock’n’roll before Jerry Lee Lewis kicked in the door,” says Jerry Lee Lewis. Some historians may debate that, but there was no one like him, just the same; even the ones who claimed to be first, who claimed to be progenitors, borrowed it from some ghost who vanished in the haze of a delta field or behind the fences of a prison farm. People who played with him across the years say he can conjure a thousand songs and play each one seven ways. He can make your high-heel sneakers shake the floorboards, or lift you over the rainbow, or kneel with you at the old rugged cross. He can holler “Hold on, I’m comin’” or leave you at the house of blue lights. Or he can just be still, his legend, the legend of rock’n’roll, already cut into history in sharper letters than the story of his life. Sam Phillips of Sun Records, a man who snagged lightning four or five times, called him “the most talented man I ever worked with, black or white… one of the most talented human beings to walk God’s earth.”

Jerry Lee is as modest as ever. I, for one, am glad that the old reprobate didn’t shoot Rick Bragg. The mere thought leaves me: