town’s hairdressing salon, where my hair was trimmed and my nails finely manicured by an obsequious little fusspot of a man who, with his own elaborately crimped and wavy locks, was the very image of a barber in a French farce; in the more expensive of its two men’s shops in search of a ‘stylish’ silk tie that might set off to advantage the pale grey, slim-waisted suit I had not yet worn in Chesterfield as it had been bought and set aside for exactly the present occasion; then in a chic and overwhelmingly fragrant flower shop— located, possibly as a result of someone’s drolly irreverent sense of cause and effect, next door to the gun store—where I purchased a vast bouquet of white ‘long-stemmed’ roses.
I watched David to see what he thought of it, and he had not yet made up his mind. Oozing apple pie pessimism. In this large sense, criticism is, as T.S. Eliot observed, “as inevitable as breathing.”
But could I find my way back to the way I was before this all began?
There was a pause—just long enough for an angel to pass, flying slowly.
That night I had some dreadful dreams.
38.
Roy was in a panic. He said very distinctly, and looking at the carpet, “She’s gone.” He was in love; it did not follow that he was loved, or ever would be. He had barricaded himself in his house. He told me his despair was from being misunderstood. As is known, however, a man too carried away by passion, especially if he is of a certain age, becomes completely blind and is ready to suspect hope where there is no hope at all; moreover, he takes leave of his senses and acts like a foolish child, though he be of the most palatial mind. Love is the most profound aesthetic experience in a person’s life. On that note, he took the cap off a bottle of beer. “Gimme a cigarette.” He was ugly, lively, and filled with the spirit of libertinism. There is nothing, he thought, nothing so blissful in the world as falling back into the arms of a woman who is—possibly bad for you. At least he was happy for a time. “I was once a man,” he said, “but now I’m not.”
During the period in my life when I was most unhappy, I used to frequent—for reasons hard to justify, and without a trace of sexual attraction—a woman whom I only found appealing because of her ridiculous appearance: as though my lot required in these circumstances a bird of ill omen to keep me company.
“I think this room is the saddest place I have ever been.” How could anyone live for long in such a place? “Wake up and smell the espresso.” Two or three books had been placed on each shelf, for decoration—exactly what bad designers do to provide their clients with a bogus cultural pedigree while leaving space for Lalique vases, African fetishes, silver plates, and crystal decanters. “Let me guess who decorated this room.”
Sometimes staying in the house can be bad.
“I don’t believe you,” Roy said. I could hear her talking to herself. She did not know what she thought. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly. “Is there anything here you’d like to put on?” he asked. “If you would step with me for a moment into the bathroom … I’ll be brief,” he said.
It’s creepy, the language of police.
“I am a camera,” I said. “I’m doing a nonfiction novel.” Art, on this view of things, does not result from work. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
Excitement is muddling my thoughts, my face is blazing with heat.
“You’ll succeed at whatever you’re passionate about. But isn’t it dangerous for a girl your age?” Seated, she opened her handbag and used the mirror to look at her teeth. Next he showed some anxiety about the adjective “handsome.” It was difficult to argue with a man
I watched David to see what he thought of it, and he had not yet made up his mind. Oozing apple pie pessimism. In this large sense, criticism is, as T.S. Eliot observed, “as inevitable as breathing.”
But could I find my way back to the way I was before this all began?
There was a pause—just long enough for an angel to pass, flying slowly.
That night I had some dreadful dreams.
38.
Roy was in a panic. He said very distinctly, and looking at the carpet, “She’s gone.” He was in love; it did not follow that he was loved, or ever would be. He had barricaded himself in his house. He told me his despair was from being misunderstood. As is known, however, a man too carried away by passion, especially if he is of a certain age, becomes completely blind and is ready to suspect hope where there is no hope at all; moreover, he takes leave of his senses and acts like a foolish child, though he be of the most palatial mind. Love is the most profound aesthetic experience in a person’s life. On that note, he took the cap off a bottle of beer. “Gimme a cigarette.” He was ugly, lively, and filled with the spirit of libertinism. There is nothing, he thought, nothing so blissful in the world as falling back into the arms of a woman who is—possibly bad for you. At least he was happy for a time. “I was once a man,” he said, “but now I’m not.”
During the period in my life when I was most unhappy, I used to frequent—for reasons hard to justify, and without a trace of sexual attraction—a woman whom I only found appealing because of her ridiculous appearance: as though my lot required in these circumstances a bird of ill omen to keep me company.
“I think this room is the saddest place I have ever been.” How could anyone live for long in such a place? “Wake up and smell the espresso.” Two or three books had been placed on each shelf, for decoration—exactly what bad designers do to provide their clients with a bogus cultural pedigree while leaving space for Lalique vases, African fetishes, silver plates, and crystal decanters. “Let me guess who decorated this room.”
Sometimes staying in the house can be bad.
“I don’t believe you,” Roy said. I could hear her talking to herself. She did not know what she thought. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly. “Is there anything here you’d like to put on?” he asked. “If you would step with me for a moment into the bathroom … I’ll be brief,” he said.
It’s creepy, the language of police.
“I am a camera,” I said. “I’m doing a nonfiction novel.” Art, on this view of things, does not result from work. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
Excitement is muddling my thoughts, my face is blazing with heat.
“You’ll succeed at whatever you’re passionate about. But isn’t it dangerous for a girl your age?” Seated, she opened her handbag and used the mirror to look at her teeth. Next he showed some anxiety about the adjective “handsome.” It was difficult to argue with a man
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