Protestant probity, co-mingled with deep-dyed luxury brought
until eleven-thirty but since my mother
She was a masterpiece of composure; nothing ever ruffled her or made her upset, and though she was not beautiful her calmness had the magnetic pull of beauty—a stillness so powerful that the molecules realigned themselves around her when she came into a room.
democracy is excuse for any fucking thing. Violence… greed… stupidity… anything is ok if Americans do it. Right?
this.” He’d gone back to my room for my school copy of Walden and was reading aloud a lengthy passage that bolstered some point he was trying to make. The thrown book—luckily a paperback—clipped me in the cheekbone. “Ischézni! Get out!” “This is my house, you ignorant fuck.” The cocktail sausage—still
blonde but a darker, rust color and a
bit straggly, like her aunt Margaret’s.
detect an inaccuracy—say a style of carving
what you like.” “Yes, but—” I’d unboxed so much china from funeral sales and broken-up households that there was something almost unspeakably sad about the pristine, gleaming displays, with their tacit assurance that shiny new tableware promised an equally shiny and tragedy-free future. “Chinois? Or
fluttered, laughed nervously and at her own jokes, with a ghost of
inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave,
shaken to talk. For a while we both walked with heads down and there was no noise except the two of us clicking along the park path in darkness, our footsteps seeming
edges, ringing the just-visible ghost
to think better of it: Where are you?
here’s the truth: life is catastrophe. The basic fact of existence—of walking around trying to feed ourselves and find friends and whatever else we do—is catastrophe.