Read Online Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson, Steven Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Markson, Steven Moore
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Psychological fiction, Social Science, Survival, womens studies, Women, Long Island (N.Y.), Women - New York (State) - Long Island - Psychology
Ads: Link
limp, if I have possibly given that impression.
And meanwhile I am also now curious about the tape itself, since for the life of me I cannot remember having put it up.
Unquestionably I did put it up, however, since I can remember very distinctly when the window broke.
Oh, dear, the wind has just broken one of the windows in one of the rooms downstairs, I can even remember thinking.
This would have been right after I had heard the glass, naturally.
And on a windy night.
Yet for the life of me I cannot remember repairing that window.
In fact I am next to positive that I have never had any tape in this house.
The last time I can remember having seen any tape, anywhere, was on the afternoon when I drove the Volkswagen van full of first aid items into the Mediterranean.
As it happened there was a tape deck in the van also, although this is of course in no way connected to the sort of tape I am talking about.
The tape deck in the van was playing The Seasons, by Vivaldi.
Even after I had climbed back up the embankment, the tape deck continued to play. In my upside down car that was filling up with the sea.
As a matter of fact what it was playing was Les Troyens, by Berlioz.
This held a particular interest for me, in fact, what with my having been in Hisarlik not long before. For some time I sat on the embankment and listened to it.
Though to tell the truth I had much more recently been in Rome. And in Rimini and Perugia and Venice.
So that perhaps the tape deck was playing something else entirely.
For the life of me I cannot remember what I had been trying to get that monstrosity of a canvas up that stairway for.
Even if the question was soon enough rendered irrelevant, considering the manner in which I did not get it up.
And what have I been saying that has now made me think about Brahms's mother?
In this instance I can make an educated guess, since the poor woman had a crippled leg.
For the life of me I would not have believed that the life of Brahms was the book I had read in this house.
Evidently not every question falls into the category of questions that would appear to remain unanswerable, however.
Though what must now surprise me is that I would have troubled to read a book so badly damaged, or printed on such cheap paper.
Any number of books in this house are in considerably better condition, even if all of them show evidence of dampness.
Such as the atlas, for instance. Although the atlas has had the advantage of lying flat, generally, rather than standing askew.
In fact I returned it to that same position not two days ago, after having wished to remind myself where Lititz, Pennsylvania, and Ithaca, New York, might be.
The book about baseball has a green cover, incidentally, which is possibly appropriate.
Conversely there does not appear to be a single book about art in this house.
My reason for remarking on this is not personal. Rather I find it unusual simply because of another painter once seeming to have lived here.
Then again the other painter may have only been a guest. In which case the painting of the house may well have been done as a sort of gift, in return for her visit.
Though in suggesting that, I am of course forgetting the several other paintings in certain of the rooms here that I do not go into, and to which the doors are closed.
Possibly those other paintings are paintings by the same painter, as well.
In fact I am certain that they are, in spite of my not having looked at any of them since closing the doors, which I did some time ago.
The only one of the closed doors which I any longer open is the one to the room where the atlas and the life of Brahms are, and that has been happening only lately.
It is scarcely a demanding proposition to determine that all three paintings on the walls of the same house have beenpainted by the same painter, however.
More especially when all three are paintings of houses at, or near, a beach, as I have now remembered that the other two are
And meanwhile I am also now curious about the tape itself, since for the life of me I cannot remember having put it up.
Unquestionably I did put it up, however, since I can remember very distinctly when the window broke.
Oh, dear, the wind has just broken one of the windows in one of the rooms downstairs, I can even remember thinking.
This would have been right after I had heard the glass, naturally.
And on a windy night.
Yet for the life of me I cannot remember repairing that window.
In fact I am next to positive that I have never had any tape in this house.
The last time I can remember having seen any tape, anywhere, was on the afternoon when I drove the Volkswagen van full of first aid items into the Mediterranean.
As it happened there was a tape deck in the van also, although this is of course in no way connected to the sort of tape I am talking about.
The tape deck in the van was playing The Seasons, by Vivaldi.
Even after I had climbed back up the embankment, the tape deck continued to play. In my upside down car that was filling up with the sea.
As a matter of fact what it was playing was Les Troyens, by Berlioz.
This held a particular interest for me, in fact, what with my having been in Hisarlik not long before. For some time I sat on the embankment and listened to it.
Though to tell the truth I had much more recently been in Rome. And in Rimini and Perugia and Venice.
So that perhaps the tape deck was playing something else entirely.
For the life of me I cannot remember what I had been trying to get that monstrosity of a canvas up that stairway for.
Even if the question was soon enough rendered irrelevant, considering the manner in which I did not get it up.
And what have I been saying that has now made me think about Brahms's mother?
In this instance I can make an educated guess, since the poor woman had a crippled leg.
For the life of me I would not have believed that the life of Brahms was the book I had read in this house.
Evidently not every question falls into the category of questions that would appear to remain unanswerable, however.
Though what must now surprise me is that I would have troubled to read a book so badly damaged, or printed on such cheap paper.
Any number of books in this house are in considerably better condition, even if all of them show evidence of dampness.
Such as the atlas, for instance. Although the atlas has had the advantage of lying flat, generally, rather than standing askew.
In fact I returned it to that same position not two days ago, after having wished to remind myself where Lititz, Pennsylvania, and Ithaca, New York, might be.
The book about baseball has a green cover, incidentally, which is possibly appropriate.
Conversely there does not appear to be a single book about art in this house.
My reason for remarking on this is not personal. Rather I find it unusual simply because of another painter once seeming to have lived here.
Then again the other painter may have only been a guest. In which case the painting of the house may well have been done as a sort of gift, in return for her visit.
Though in suggesting that, I am of course forgetting the several other paintings in certain of the rooms here that I do not go into, and to which the doors are closed.
Possibly those other paintings are paintings by the same painter, as well.
In fact I am certain that they are, in spite of my not having looked at any of them since closing the doors, which I did some time ago.
The only one of the closed doors which I any longer open is the one to the room where the atlas and the life of Brahms are, and that has been happening only lately.
It is scarcely a demanding proposition to determine that all three paintings on the walls of the same house have beenpainted by the same painter, however.
More especially when all three are paintings of houses at, or near, a beach, as I have now remembered that the other two are
Similar Books
