I have a stack of books to get through but I keep setting them down to reread Kings of the Wyld. Whatever for? What draws me back is passages like this:

Which are you, the monster or the man?

It wasn’t the words that had moved him. It was the look in her eyes, green as the sunlit sea. She was offering him absolution, the defining choice of a lifetime balanced on a blade’s edge. The truth, he knew, was that the world needed his kind of monster. It was a brutal place. It was unfair. And Clay Cooper, such as he was, was quite simply the right kind of wrong.

Damnnn! This is the level of prose that awards were intended for! There are pages and pages of gems like this. If Kings of the Wyld doesn’t win an award I will cry foul from the highest mountain. Either that or I’ll propose a new award. The Eames Award.