Read Online Glyph by Percival Everett - Free Book Online

Steimmel strapped me into a carrier in the backseat, stuck a legal pad and a marker in front of me, and said, “Knock yourself out.”
ennuyeux
    On Ludwig Boltzman’s tombstone is carved: S = k. LogW. S is the entropy of a system, k represents Boltzman’s Constant, and W is a measure of the chaos of a system, essentially the extent to which energy is dispersed in the world. This equation meant little to me as I read of it the first time, but as I considered it I grew excited. The space between S and W is the space between the thing in front of me and the stuff hidden inside beyond my observation and comprehension. It raises the question: How many ways can the parts of a thing be rearranged before I can see a difference? How many ways can the atoms and molecules of my hand move and recombine before I realize that something is wrong? Thinking about it scared me. Certainly, I understood that natural events symbolize collapse into chaos and that events are motivated by dissolution, but the idea of such subversive and invisible change moved me. I likened it to observing the minds of others.
mary mallon
    The man with Steimmel, whose name was Boris, drove hunched over, his lips nearly touching the steering wheel. I could see him through the gap between the front seats. The sun was just coming up over the hills and we were headed north along the coast. I could smell the coffee that Steimmel was guzzling.
    “I have a really bad feeling about this,” Boris was saying again.
    But this time Steimmel responded. She said, “Of course you have a bad feeling, you dope. We just kidnapped a kid. But it’s for science. Hell, we might even be saving the planet.” Steimmel laughed a hoarse laugh. “At the very least, this little bastard is going to make me famous. He’s the link, Boris. He’s the link between the imaginary and symbolic phases. I’m going to dissect him and then it will be Freud, Jung, Adler, and Steimmel. And to hell with Lacan. He’s just Freud in an spray can.”
    “The kid can’t be that special,” Boris said.
    “The fucker writes poetry. He writes stories.”
    “Are they any good?”
    “Shut up.” She turned in her seat to glance back at me. “The little worm is listening to us right now. He probably believes he understands what we’re saying. Right, Ralphie?”
    I wrote a note, crumpled it and tossed it in the direction of Steimmel. She found it and read:
    So that I don’t die of boredom back here would you explain to me what Lacan means by the sliding signified and the floating signifier?
    Steimmel began to laugh wildly. “I’m going to be fucking famous. Those professors of mine back at Columbia will choke on crow now. The pigs. Boris, who is the greatest psychoanalytic thinker you know?”
    “You are.” Then, slightly under his breath, he added, “Unsere letzte Hoffnung, meine Führerin.”
    “Be careful, Boris.”
    I was concerned about my mother. I could see her walking into my room and finding me gone. At first, she would not believe it, then as she heard my father stirring in the bedroom, it would sink in. She would scream and my father would come running into the room and figure out what was wrong. And they would stand there holding each other, not out of love but fear, not to support but to remain standing. They would search the house, then Inflato would call the police while Mo continued the search outside in the yard and garden, maybe even moving down the street, house to house. I did not like the expression I imagined on my mother’s face.
pharmakon
    I knew of cinema only what I had read. I had never seen a movie, though I knew the stories of many. And I believed I understood the narrative structure of them, but there was one device that escaped me. It was the montage. And though my first example 4 of it was poorly done, I could still appreciate the possibilities, especially the camp ones. I knew that I would have to employ the technique in my dreams and even in my recollections. The