He never made any secret of his origins; in fact, he was in a way proud of his roots. One could hardly tell that his
vast knowledge of Cajun music was mainly academic (he had been raised from his birth in a New Orleans orphanage run by French
-- from France -- nuns.)
— Ever' year dem college boys com up hyeah from en ville, an' ever' year some heifer t'ink she too good
fo' huh own folks!
— Mais yeah, but dem Gaunts is so coonass dey cross-eyed! Ah wouldn' fuck dat Merope wid yo' dick!
— Coo-yai! Dat schoolboy musta been some dronk!
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— Dis de residence o' Mistah Tom Riddle? Ah'm his wife, an' dis his li'l son Tommie...
(— What the hell, Tom!! How much moonshine y'all drink down in that swamp? Your mama and me'll bail your ass out
this time, and you can just quit messin' with that faggot liberal arts stuff, 'cause the next tuition check I write is goin'
to Georgia Tech!)
— I-I don't know, Tom. You did do the right thing, but it's just... I mean, I can't -couldn't... Well, it's
just too much, Tom, and it's not fair of you to ask!
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Tom Gaunt, slight and plain, constantly singing Cajun ballads under his breath, had few friends at the Ste. Anne de
Beauprais Children's Refuge, but he did have fans, other children even slighter and plainer and odder than himself...
— Hey, Gaunt! Is it true yo' mama was a swamp 'ho?
— They say she were ugly as homemade soup and dumb as
a sack o' diapers, that true?
— I s'pose dat could be so, yah... Mais, leastwise mah Daddy's white...
— Say, what kind o' spider is dat on yo' neck, Billy?
— Sister
Marie, how all dem li'l snakes got in Bobby Lee's bed? Dey ain' poison, is dey?
