shocking merely, but because they are true.
“I need a drink,” he said. The more clearly he saw, the more cunning he grew.
“Yes,” she sighed, subsiding. “So there’ll be two drunks instead of one.” Strange words to be speaking over breakfast, over coffee and toast.
“Look here,” he said. “A person’s a person, no matter how small.” So adult did he look in the depth of his meditation that she could not resist smiling. Then, on a sudden but apparently pressing impulse, he stretched out supine on the carpet. The ways of women will never cease to perplex him. This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with, as for me. “I just can’t take it no more,” he said. “She thinks I’m going to stay on here forever just being a boy.” We have heard this kind of talk before.
Later Joe was to ascribe his acquiescence to his desire to please, to be accepted and loved, but it was due also to his being what was then called a “sissy.” He was one of those sensitive beings who blush guiltily when someone else makes a blunder. He’s a funny kid. Normality is a precarious condition. But many things that are disposed of in the minds of grownups are not yet settled in the minds of the young. Inadequate as he felt himself to be in the practical skills of life, he knew the advantage he had when it came to literature and learning. His waking hours were spent in a prison of rituals and superstitions, his “mania,” as he called it.
Time would take care of the situation. But few people will love him, I think, in spite of his graces and his genius and whosoever exchanges kindnesses with him is likely to get the worst of the bargain. “Oh, I know that,” he said softly, in a tone of intimate contempt. Joe shuffled down the carpeted stairs still in his pajamas. “Let me deceive myself.” Going upstairs, the sole of one of his slippers monotonously slapped the bare boards. “Dad understands that.”
“Why should I?” she replied, and blew her nose. “That’s just what I don’t want, Joe.” This rings absolutely true, proving that sloth often alters truth more than mere mendacity.
Even as they spoke the sun was beginning to disappear behind a cloud. Her influence over him was gone. He was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. Eleanor did not dispute this. “He was born an old man, that’s how it started.” How can they know each other so little, after all this time? She builds an imaginative life that will shut out the real, and she has done this since childhood.
Eleanor’s view prevailed. It was life but was it fair?
Silence.
Now that’s what I call a breakfast.
25.
“Well, this would interest you. There is a woman in China, twenty-nine years old, whose right foot is on her left leg.”
David closed his eyes and pictured it. “Life has been difficult for her,” he said. “Sounds dreadful.” He was smoking a pipe, and his feet, in silk socks and red leather slippers, were resting on a footstool. He was freshly shaved and this gave his face a thin, pure beauty. And it begins to look very old-fashioned. Style is an extraordinary thing. I turned on the radio as I cooked. Nothing and everything happening at once. “Chopin, eh?” It was Stravinsky. Despite everything that has happened, and everything I desired to happen that never did, I can still soothe myself with this kind of music. Messages from an unvisited island. And then there’s the food. To cook is not just to prepare food for someone or for yourself; it is to express your sincerity.
How much my life has changed, and yet how unchanged it has remained at bottom! Every moment it seems to me that I am running away from myself.
At this moment David appeared as if by magic. “Darling, is there any Perrier in the fridge?” he said, removing a pill from his little box. To this crucial question I answer with a
“I need a drink,” he said. The more clearly he saw, the more cunning he grew.
“Yes,” she sighed, subsiding. “So there’ll be two drunks instead of one.” Strange words to be speaking over breakfast, over coffee and toast.
“Look here,” he said. “A person’s a person, no matter how small.” So adult did he look in the depth of his meditation that she could not resist smiling. Then, on a sudden but apparently pressing impulse, he stretched out supine on the carpet. The ways of women will never cease to perplex him. This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with, as for me. “I just can’t take it no more,” he said. “She thinks I’m going to stay on here forever just being a boy.” We have heard this kind of talk before.
Later Joe was to ascribe his acquiescence to his desire to please, to be accepted and loved, but it was due also to his being what was then called a “sissy.” He was one of those sensitive beings who blush guiltily when someone else makes a blunder. He’s a funny kid. Normality is a precarious condition. But many things that are disposed of in the minds of grownups are not yet settled in the minds of the young. Inadequate as he felt himself to be in the practical skills of life, he knew the advantage he had when it came to literature and learning. His waking hours were spent in a prison of rituals and superstitions, his “mania,” as he called it.
Time would take care of the situation. But few people will love him, I think, in spite of his graces and his genius and whosoever exchanges kindnesses with him is likely to get the worst of the bargain. “Oh, I know that,” he said softly, in a tone of intimate contempt. Joe shuffled down the carpeted stairs still in his pajamas. “Let me deceive myself.” Going upstairs, the sole of one of his slippers monotonously slapped the bare boards. “Dad understands that.”
“Why should I?” she replied, and blew her nose. “That’s just what I don’t want, Joe.” This rings absolutely true, proving that sloth often alters truth more than mere mendacity.
Even as they spoke the sun was beginning to disappear behind a cloud. Her influence over him was gone. He was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. Eleanor did not dispute this. “He was born an old man, that’s how it started.” How can they know each other so little, after all this time? She builds an imaginative life that will shut out the real, and she has done this since childhood.
Eleanor’s view prevailed. It was life but was it fair?
Silence.
Now that’s what I call a breakfast.
25.
“Well, this would interest you. There is a woman in China, twenty-nine years old, whose right foot is on her left leg.”
David closed his eyes and pictured it. “Life has been difficult for her,” he said. “Sounds dreadful.” He was smoking a pipe, and his feet, in silk socks and red leather slippers, were resting on a footstool. He was freshly shaved and this gave his face a thin, pure beauty. And it begins to look very old-fashioned. Style is an extraordinary thing. I turned on the radio as I cooked. Nothing and everything happening at once. “Chopin, eh?” It was Stravinsky. Despite everything that has happened, and everything I desired to happen that never did, I can still soothe myself with this kind of music. Messages from an unvisited island. And then there’s the food. To cook is not just to prepare food for someone or for yourself; it is to express your sincerity.
How much my life has changed, and yet how unchanged it has remained at bottom! Every moment it seems to me that I am running away from myself.
At this moment David appeared as if by magic. “Darling, is there any Perrier in the fridge?” he said, removing a pill from his little box. To this crucial question I answer with a
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