
##1001251 The outer Cape in mid-October . A new tilt to the earth and its altered angle to the sun make for a suffusing clarity . Hopper 's light . With the tourists gone , the beaches have been reclaimed by gulls , and the road that traverses the peninsula is bare . At this time of year , delays occur behind school buses . <p> Telephone to his ear , Bernardin looks at the evolving geometry of the painting on the easel in his studio , and , filled with dread and sadness at what he is hearing , conjures up the face of Malcolm , who , according to a tearful Jocelyn , has just been pried dead from the wreckage of a head-on at the blinking yellow on Route 6 by something called the Jaws of Life . The woman who was Malcolm 's passenger has been taken to the hospital in Hyannis . The driver of the truck that crossed the center dividing line and struck them is unhurt . <p> " D' you know this woman ? " Jocelyn asks . <p> " Yes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rest of us do . " <p> Malcolm 's secret , Bernardin thinks . <p> " The hospital 's calling her Jane Doe . " <p> " I 'd better call the hospital , " Bernardin says . This enables him to hang up without answering further questions . <p> A nurse in the emergency room tells him that the Jane Doe brought in by the rescue squad is in serious but stable condition with head injuries . <p> " Her name is Ingrid Torquist , " Bernardin says . " She lives in Oregon <p> " Are you by chance a relative ? " <p> " A friend , " says Bernardin , going back two hours in time , when Malcolm and Ingrid stopped by his place on their way to Malcolm 's house to pick up her luggage before driving up to Boston , so she could take a plane to Portland and tell her husband that she was leaving him and coming back to live with Malcolm , whom she has always loved . They imparted this intention to Bernardin in breathless confidence . Like a couple @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 's daughter , who is at college in Connecticut , and whom she just visited on the occasion of parents ' weekend , does n't know what 's afoot . <p> " Is Mrs. Torquist conscious ? " Bernardin inquires . <p> " Off and on . She 's been asking for someone named Malcolm . " <p> Malcolm of the grand , impulsive gesture , Bernardin thinks . " Tell her that Harry called , " he says . " Tell her I 'm going to contact her daughter and bring her to the hospital . " <p> A few minutes later , Bernardin finds himself talking to a dean of women , whose suspicions have been honed by the feminist times and the fact that Bernardin has forgotten Ingrid 's daughter 's Christian name . This is not an altogether surprising lapse , since he has only met her once , during the spring , when she and her mother spent a weekend at Malcolm 's while visiting various colleges in New England to which the daughter had been accepted . <p> " We 're very careful when granting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ explains . <p> Bernardin wonders if he should offer to supply some character references . The only names that come to mind , however , are those of his art dealer in New York and some gallery owners in Provincetown -- none of whom are likely to inspire trust and confidence in the dean , whom he imagines to be thin-lipped . " Miss Torquist will remember me , " he says . " She and her mother and I had dinner last April at Malcolm Prescott 's house . " <p> His own memory of that improbably romantic evening -- he will learn later that it was the first meeting between Malcolm and Ingrid in twenty years -- remains vivid : Malcolm getting sloshed on bourbon while steaming lobsters in the kitchen ; Ingrid , languid as a cat in sunshine , watching from the table ; the daughter beside her absorbed in her impending choice of schools ; Bernardin unaware of having been invited for the same reason that Gatsby invited Carraway to tea with Daisy , but sensing that the occasion is momentous because of Malcolm 's elaborate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( past fifty ) seldom confide in one another about women , and when they do they tend to leave out the details-even when they 're as close to each other as Bernardin and Malcolm considered themselves to be . <p> Bernardin decides not to tell the dean that Malcolm has been killed in the car crash . There 's no point in upsetting Maria any more than necessary . <p> " Maria ! " he exclaims . " Maria Torquist . " <p> The dean does not respond to this evidence of recovered memory . She asks Bernardin for his telephone number and that of the hospital , and says that she 'll call back . When she does , an hour later , it is to tell him that everything has been arranged . Maria has contacted her father , who will fly east tomorrow . Meanwhile , she and her roommate are packing . They will arrive at the airport in Hyannis on a chartered plane at about seven o'clock that evening . <p> " I 'll be on hand to meet them , " Bernardin says . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ replies . <p> There is windshield glass in the roadway at the blinking yellow , but the wreckage of Malcolm 's car and the truck that struck it have been towed away . The glass glitters in the flat trajectory of late afternoon light . Bernardin turns off the highway and drives out over Sansquit Neck to Malcolm 's house . Malcolm 's son , Ryan , who cooks at a restaurant in Chatham , opens the door and steps into Bernardin 's consoling hug . Beyond the young man 's shoulder , Bernardin sees two women whom he vaguely recognizes as neighbors , sitting on a sofa in the living room , beneath a wall on which one of his own watercolors and some of Malcolm 's photographs are hanging . Among the photographs are a battle scene taken at Pleiku and a female nude taken from behind . There are other people in the room Bernardin does not know . He does not see Malcolm 's wife , Helena , who suffers from schizophrenia and is in an institution . <p> " Has your mother been told ! " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from Boston . She 'll be here soon <p> " I 'm on my way to the airport to meet Ingrid 's daughter , " Bernardin says . " I came by to pick up her bags . They 're probably upstairs , " he adds , aware that even if Ryan has figured out about his father and Ingrid , grief may have prevented him from considering the delicate problem that the presence of her luggage might now present . <p> As they are putting Ingrid 's suitcases into Bernardin 's car , Ryan tells him that the police have called about her purse . A garageman found it in the wreck , after it was towed away . They 're holding it at the station . <p> The plane that taxis up to the chain-link fence in front of the terminal is small and improbably sleek . Maria smiles and waves at Bernardin as she alights . She is taller and more heavily boned and not as delicate as her mother , whose chiseled features and pale complexion remind Bernardin of a European actress , whose name , like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Her roommate is a solemn-looking redhead , who appears to have been crying . While the pilot is pulling their bags from the nose compartment , Bernardin tells Maria that a staff neurologist has been notified of her arrival and is waiting at the hospital . He suggests that she inquire about the advisability of transferring her mother up to Massachusetts General so she can be examined by specialists there . <p> The neurologist says that Ingrid is suffering from a severe concussion , a broken nose , and a dislocated knee . When Maria asks about the specialists at Mass . General , he says that he expects Ingrid to pull through without complications and that it would be unwise to move her now . Happily , a CAT scan has not revealed any dangerous swelling of the brain . <p> When a nurse takes Maria in to see her mother , Bernardin is left in the waiting room with the roommate , whose name is Alison . <p> " She 's been terrific about all of this , " Alison says . " I 've been more scared than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ business , " Bernardin replies . He is thinking of how Malcolm would have hated the idea of people watching as he was being extracted from the wreckage by the Jaws of Life . <p> When Maria returns , she describes how Ingrid looks . " Both her eyes are black , and her whole face is black and blue and swollen , and she keeps crying out for Malcolm . The nurse and I tried to tell her he was dead , but she wo n't listen . She just keeps crying out his name <p> " She 's in shock , " Bernardin says , putting an arm around Maria 's shoulder . " It 'll wear off gradually . " <p> " But the way she keeps crying out his name . It 's so hysterical <p> " She 's in shock , " Bernardin explains again . <p> " I did n't even know she was coming here . I thought she was flying home from Boston . " <p> " The Cape 's only an hour or two out of the way . She probably wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lot about the Cape , " Maria says . " She loved it here <p> She loved Malcolm here , Bernardin thinks . During the summer , twenty years ago ... " The police have your mother 's purse for safekeeping , " he tells Maria . " We 'll pick it up on the way to my place <p> The duty officer at the station , who sits at a desk that is bathed in glare , seems uncertain about his authority to release the purse . He telephones the chief , who lives close by . The chief -- short , stout , and in uniform -- arrives a few minutes later . Bernardin knows that to Malcolm 's mortification he and his men were called to the house on several occasions , when Helena got out of hand . He asks Maria a number of questions about her mother -- maiden name , date of birth , that kind of thing -- which means that he has probably examined the contents of the purse . In the end , he seems reluctant to hand it over . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> " Only that we prefer to return personal effects to an adult relative . " <p> " This young lady 's in college , " Bernardin says . " Her father wo n't arrive until late tomorrow , and when he does he 'll want to be with his wife <p> The chief gives a nod of understanding and instructs the duty officer to make out a property transfer slip for Maria to sign . While this is being done , he draws Bernardin aside . <p> " Rotten shame about Prescott he says . <p> " A sad business Bernardin agrees . <p> " Quite a photographer , was n't he ! " <p> Of war and women , Bernardin thinks . <p> " How 's the girl 's mother ? " <p> " In a state of shock . " <p> " Conscious ? " <p> " Pretty much . " <p> " You 'll see she gets the purse and not the husband ? " The chief has put unmistakable emphasis upon the feminine pronoun . <p> " If you think it 's best . " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chief tells him . <p> Malcolm 's house is ablaze with a false festivity of light . Cars have been parked every which way in the wild rose and bearberry that line the dirt drive leading to it . Inside , Bernardin introduces Maria and Alison to Helena and Ryan , who are sitting on the sofa in the living room . Maria offers words of sympathy to Helena , who blinks like a child struggling to stay alert at a party . " Should n't I know you ! " she inquires . <p> ' Maria 's mother was a friend of Malcolm 's , " Bernardin explains . <p> " She was hurt in the accident but she 's going to be all right <p> " Well , that 's good news Helena says . She pats the sofa cushion beside her that Ryan has vacated in order to take Maria and Alison off for something to drink . " Harry . Dear old Harry ( ' <p> Bernardin sits and takes her hand . " Helena , I 'm so terribly sorry <p> " Well , Harry , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I get you anything ? " <p> " I 'm not allowed to drink , you know . On account of my medication . Tell me about the girl you brought <p> " She goes to college in Connecticut . She and her roommate flew in this evening to visit her mother in the hospital . They 're going to spend the night at my place . " <p> " Guess what , " Helena says brightly . " It 's not her I thought I should know . It 's her mother . Did you ever hear about the first time she took a ride with Malcolm ? " <p> " That was a long time ago , " Bernardin tells her . <p> " Yes , it was , " Helena says . " Dear old Harry <p> When it seems right to leave , Bernardin fetches Alison and goes to look for Maria , whom he finds with Ryan in Malcolm 's study at the rear of the house . They are sitting in chairs , face to face and hands in hands , elbows on their knees @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ better when she sees your father , " Ryan is saying . <p> " Right now , she 's terribly upset about your father , Ryan . She knows something awful has happened , but she ca n't remember what " When you see her tomorrow , tell her we 're pulling for her <p> When Bernardin arrives at his house , he shepherds Maria and Alison inside and shows them the guest room in which they 'll be sleeping . Then he sits them down at a counter in the kitchen , puts a kettle on for tea , and goes out to fetch their bags , which are sitting in the car trunk next to Ingrid 's . Best for everyone to have gotten Ingrid 's bags out of Malcolm 's house , he tells himself , knowing that he has at least managed to spare Helena , Ingrid , and Maria some unnecessary pain , not to mention Maria 's father , who will have enough on his hands without having to confront head-on a truth there is no longer any reason for him to have to face @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bernardin thinks grimly , as he reaches up to close the hatch . But just then he remembers what the chief has said about Ingrid 's purse . <p> Bernardin carries all the luggage into the house and sets it down in the guest room . Then he goes into the kitchen and makes tea for the two young women , whose faces reflect the fatigue he feels in himself . The three of them need to get some sleep , he says . Tomorrow will be a long and busy day . <p> Maria agrees , for she is anxious to return to the hospital early so she can be with Ingrid . Also , she must remember to get rooms for herself and Alison and her father at a motel near the hospital , and arrange for her father to speak with the neurologist and his colleagues . <p> Bernardin has been trying to think of how best to say what he has decided he should say . " I brought your mother 's bags inside , " he tells Maria . " You ought to go through them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Just to make sure everything 's in order <p> Maria gives him a look of puzzlement that is quickly canceled by a shrug . " If you think I should ... " <p> " In the morning will be fine , " Bernardin says . <p> He awakens to the sound of weeping , which is overlapped from time to time by a comforting voice , and , lying still in his bed , hopes it is a letter Maria has found and not -- as he suspects from what the chief has said -- a photograph . When the weeping shows no sign of abating , he climbs out of bed , pulls on his clothes , and goes into the kitchen to make some coffee . Alison joins him a few minutes later . <p> " I take it there was something in Ingrid 's purse , " he says . <p> " Yes , " Alison replies . " You knew all along , did n't you ? " <p> " I only guessed . " <p> " I do n't see why Maria had to find it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ while Ingrid was lying half-conscious in the hospital ? " <p> " Whatever it was , was pretty explicit . Maria 's devastated . " <p> " That 's sex for you , " Bernardin tells her . " It 's always explicit , often devastating , but almost never tragic . " <p> " Are n't you being kind of cynical . " <p> " I 'm trying to keep things in perspective , " Bernardin replies . Good old Malcolm , he thinks . Plying his profession to the end ... " Why do n't you go get Maria so we can cheer her up ? " <p> When Maria comes into the kitchen , her eyes are red , but she has managed to compose herself . <p> Bernardin hands her a cup of coffee . " It must be a relief to find out your mother 's not a saint he says . <p> Maria laughs and starts to cry . <p> " Just think , " Bernardin tells her , " how much easier she 'll be to live with now . " <p> Maria wipes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ <p> Once they arrive at the hospital , Bernardin arranges for the motel rooms , keeps Alison company , fetches soft drinks , does what he can . In the evening , he goes out to the airport to pick up Maria 's father , who flies in from Boston on a commuter plane . Hervold Torquist is a slender man in his early forties , with deep blue eyes and an earnest Swedish accent . As might be expected , he has some questions . <p> " Have I understood correctly from Maria that Ingrid has been a passenger in this car that crashed ! " <p> " That 's right , " Bernardin says . <p> " Which has been driven by a friend of hers named Malcolm ? " <p> " Malcolm Prescott . A friend of hers and mine , and a fine photographer to boot . " <p> " I 'm sorry to hear he 's dead , " Torquist says . " Was he by any chance an older man . " <p> " My age , " Bernardin replies . " Middle fifties . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ men . " <p> " Is that so ? " <p> " Oh , yes . And something similar to this has happened once before , when Ingrid was friends with a composer of music , a man in his sixties , who took her all the time to see foreign films , until one day while they were watching one together , he dropped dead , just like that , of a heart attack <p> During the rest of the way to the hospital , Torquist informs Bernardin that he is a cabinetmaker and that things are hard on the West Coast because the recession there has lingered . When they arrive at the hospital , he thanks Bernardin for picking him up at the airport and for his kindness to Maria . <p> Three days later , Bernardin is standing before Helena and Ryan and several dozen mourners on a cliff above the Great Outer Beach . It is an unseasonably cold day with a brisk northwest wind -- the kind that migratory birds wait for at this time of year , before launching themselves toward the South Atlantic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stops blowing , Helena will be taken back to the hospital , Maria will return to college , Ingrid Torquist will fly home with the sun , and Malcolm 's ashes will have mingled with the sand . <p> Bernardin waits as some elderly latecomers are helped across the dunes and listens to Malcolm 's voice , not as it came to him over the telephone the day after the dinner party in April , when he first met Ingrid , but as if it is being carried on the wind . " You wo n't believe what 's happened , " Malcolm says . " D' you remember the woman I once told you about , the one in the bikini down by the pier that time , twenty years ago , when I came by in the Buick convertible and called out to her how beautiful she was , who slid herself onto the hood and sat there like some figurehead on the prow of a ship while I drove slowly through the whole damn town and out to the beach ? Well .. <p> The wind is blowing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shout if he is to be heard above it . <p> 
##1001259 I was fourteen that summer . August brought heat I had never known , and during the dreamlike drought of those days , I saw my father for the first time in my life . The tulip poplars had faded to yellow before September came . There was no rain for weeks , and the people 's faces along Eleventh Street wore a longing for something cool and wet , something distant , like the promise of <p> balmy October . Talk of weather was of the heat and the dry taste in their mouths . And they were frustrated , having to notice something other than the weather in their daily pleasantries . Sometimes , in the haven of afternoon porch shade or in the still and cooler places of late night , they drank and laughed , content because they had managed to make it through the day . <p> What I noticed was the way the skin of my neighbors glistened as they toiled in their backyards , trying to save their gardens or working a few more miles into their cars . My own @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ darker and darker , my hair lightening , dispelling my assumption that it had always been a curly black -- the whole of me a new and stranger blend of browns from day after day of basketball on asphalt courts or racing the other boys down the street after the Icee truck each afternoon . <p> I came to believe that it was the heat that made things happen . It was a summer of empty sidewalks , people I knew drifting in and out of the alleyways where trees gave more shade , the dirt there cooler to walk on than any paved surface . Strangers , appearing lost , would walk through the neighborhood , the dust and sun 's glare making that place look like somewhere else they were trying to go . Sitting on our porch , I watched people I 'd never seen before walk by seemingly drawn to those rippling pools of heat glistening above the asphalt , as if something must be happening just beyond where that warmth quivered down the street . And at night I 'd look out from the porch of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scan the neighborhood , wanting to see some change , something besides the nearby rumble of freight trains and the monotony of heat , something refreshing and new . In heat like that , everyone sat on their porches , looking out into the night and hoping for something better to come up with the sun . <p> It was during such a summer , my mother told me , that my father got home from the third shift at the bottling plant , waked her with his naked body already on top of her , entered her before she was able to say no , sweat on her through moments of whiskey breath and indolent thrusting , came without saying a word , and walked back out of our house forever . He never uttered a word , she said , for it was not his way to speak much when it was hot . <p> My mother told me he left with the rumble of the trains . She was a wise woman and spoke almost as beautifully as she sang . She spoke to me with a smooth @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of someone else , and it was strange to me that she might have wanted to cry at something like that but did n't , as if there were no need anymore . <p> She said she lay still after he left , certain only of his sweat , the work shirt he left behind , and her body calming itself from the silent insistence of his thrusts . She lay still for at least an hour , aware of two things : feeling the semen her body would n't hold slowly leaving her and dripping onto the sheets , and knowing that some part of what her body did hold would fight and form itself into what became me nine months later . <p> I was ten years old when she told me this . After she sat me down and said , This is how you came to me , I knew that I would never feel like I was ten for the rest of that year . She told me what it was to love someone , what it was to make love to someone , and what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , all three do n't happen at once . When she said that , I did n't quite know what it meant , but I felt her need to tell me . She seemed determined not to hold it from me . It seemed as if somehow she was pushing me ahead of my growing . And I felt uncomfortable with it , the way secondhand shoes are at first comfortless . Soon the pain was n't greater , just hard to wear . <p> After that , she filled my home life with lessons , stories , and observations that had a tone of insistence in them , each one told in a way that dared me to let ' it drift from my mind . By the end of my eleventh year , I learned of her sister Alva , who cut off two of her husband 's fingers , one for each of his mistresses . At twelve , I had no misunderstanding , of why , someday soon , for nothing more an a few dollars , I might be stabbed by one of the same boys @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ At thirteen , I came to know that my cousin Dexter had n't become sick and been hospitalized in St. Louis , but had gotten a young white girl pregnant and was rumored to be someone 's yardman in Hyde Park . And when I was fourteen , through the tree-withering heat of August , during the Watertown Blues Festival , in throngs of sweaty , wide-smiling people , my mother pointed out to me my father . <p> For the annual festival , they closed off Eleventh Street from the downtown square all the way up to where the freight railway cuts through the city , where our neighborhood ends and the land rises up to the surrounding hills , dotted with houses the wealthy built to avoid flooding and neighbors with low incomes . Amidst the summer heat was the sizzle of barbecue at every corner , steamy blues from performance stages erected in the many empty lots up and down the street , and , of course , the scores of people , crammed together , wearing the lightest clothing they could without looking loose . By early @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the blues would have dominion over the crowd . <p> The sad , slow blues songs my mother loved the most . The Watertown Festival was her favorite social event of the year . She had a tight-skinned sort of pride through most days of the year , countered by the softer , bare-shouldered self of the blues festival , where she wore yellow or fiery orange outfits and deep , brownish-red lipstick against the chestnut shine of her cheeks . More men took the time to risk getting to know her , and every year it was a different man ; the summer suitors from past years learned quickly that although she wore that lipstick and although an orange skirt never looked better on another pair of hips , never again would she have a man leave his work shirt hanging on her bedpost . With that kind of poise , she swayed through the crowds of people smiling at many , hugging some , and stopping at times to dance with no one in particular . <p> When I was younger than fourteen , I had no choice but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make me shower and put on a fresh cotton shirt . You need to hear the blues , boy , a boy needs something to tell itself what 's good and what 's not . At fourteen , my mother approached me differently . She simply came out to the yard where I was watering her garden and said , You going ? and waited for me to turn to her , and say yes . I did n't know if I liked the blues or not . <p> We started at the top of Eleventh Street and worked our way downtown over the few hours of the festival . We passed neighbors and friends from church , my mother 's boss from Mills Dry Goods , and Reverend Riggins , who was drinking ; beer from a paper cup instead of a can . Midway down Eleventh , in front of Macky 's Mellow Tone Grill , I bumped into my cousin Wilbert , who had sneaked a tallboy of Miller High Life from a cooler somewhere up the street . A Zydeco band was warming up for Etta James @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ intense heat and shared sips of that beer while we watched my mother , with her own beer , swaying with a man twice her age to the zip and smack of the washboard . <p> Etta James had already captured the crowd when Wilbert brought back a large plate of ribs and another beer . My mother came over to share our ribs , and Wilbert was silent after deftly dropping the can of beer behind his back . I stood there listening , taking in the heat , the music , the hint of beer on my mother 's breath . The crowd had a pulse to it , still moving up and down the street but stopping to hear the growl of Etta James 's voice . The sense of closeness was almost too much . My mother was swaying back and forth on her heels , giving a little dip to her pelvis every so often and mouthing the words to the songs . At any given moment , one or two men would be looking at her , seemingly oblivious and lost in the music . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ closeness of the people . She was looking away from the stage , focusing on a commotion of laughter in front of Macky 's where voices were hooting above the music . She took hold of my shoulders and turned me towards the front of Macky 's . In a circle of loud men , all holding beer , all howling in laughter -- some shirtless and others in work clothes-stood a large man in a worn gray suit , tugging his tie jokingly like noose , pushing the men into new waves of laughter each moment . His hair was nappy like he had just risen from bed . But he smiled as if that was never his main concern anyway , and he held a presence in that circle of people which made me think he had worn that suit for just such an appearance . My mother held my shoulders tightly for a moment , not tense or angry or anxious , just firm , and then let go . <p> " There 's your father , " she said , and turned away , drifting back into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the stage , I felt obligated not to follow her . When I could see her no longer , I looked back to the circle of men and the man that my mother had pointed out . From the way he was laughing , he looked like a man who did n't care who he might have bothered with his noise . Certainly his friends did n't seem to mind . Their group commanded a large space of sidewalk in front of the bar . People made looping detours into the crowd instead of walking straight through that wide-open circle of drunken activity . The men stamped their feet , hit each other in the arms , and howled as if this afternoon were their own party I turned to tell Wilbert , but he had gone . I watched the man who was my father slapping his friends ' hands , bent over in laughter , sweat soaking his shirt under that suit . <p> He was a very passionate-looking man , large with his laugh , expressively confident in his gestures , and as I watched him , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lazy thrust of his which my mother told me had no passion in it at all . I wondered where he must have been all those years and realized how shocked I was to see the real man to fill the image my mother had made . She had made him up for me , but never whole , never fully able to grasp . I was thinking of his silence , the voice I 'd never heard . And wanting nothing else at that moment but to be closer , I walked towards that circle of men . I walked as if I were headed into Macky 's Mellow Tone , and they stopped laughing as I split their gathering . The smell of liquor , cheap cologne , and musky sweat hit my nostrils , and I was immediately aware not only that I had no reason for going or chance of getting into Macky 's , but that <p> was also passing through of a circle of strangers . I stopped a few feet from the entrance and focused on the quilted fake leather covering the door 's @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ looked at that for what seemed a long time , because I was afraid to turn back into laughter . The men had started talking again , slowly working themselves back into their own good time . But they were n't laughing at me . I turned to face them , and they seemed to have forgotten that I was there . <p> I looked up at my father , who was turned slightly away from me . His mouth was open and primed to laugh , but no sound was coming out . His teeth were large , and I could see where sometime before he had lost two of them . Watching him from the street , I had only seen his mouth move and had to imagine what he was saying . Now , so dose to him , dose enough to smell him , to touch him , I could hear nothing . But I could feel the closeness of the crowd , those unfamiliar men , my father . Then he looked down at me . His mouth dosed , and suddenly he was n't grinning @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up as my mother might have told me to do . I arced my hand out to slide across his palm , but he pulled his hand back , smiling -- a jokester , like he was too slick for my eagerness . <p> He reached in his suit jacket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses . Watertown is a small town , and when he put those glasses on , he looked like he had come from somewhere else . I know I had n't seen him before that day . I wondered when in the past few days he must have drifted into town . On what wave of early morning heat had he arrived ? <p> I looked at myself in the reflection of the mirrored lenses and thought , So this is me . <p> " Them 's slick basketball sneakers you got , " he said . " You a bad brother on the court ? " <p> I could only see the edge of one eye behind those glasses , but <p> decided that he was interested . <p> " Yeah , I am @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you just watch . " And I was sure we 'd go inside Macky 's and talk after that . We 'd talk about basketball , and then he 'd ask me if I was doing well in school , and I 'd say not too hot , and he 'd get on me about that as if he 'd always been keeping tabs on me . Then we would toast to something big , something we could share in the loving of it , like Bill Russell 's finger-roll lay-up or the pulled pork sandwich at Round Belly Ribs or the fact that I had grown two inches that year , even though he would n't have known that . We might pause for a moment , both of us quiet , both of us knowing what that silence was about , and he 'd look real serious and anxious at the same time , a man like him having too hard a face to explain anything that had happened or had n't happened . But he 'd be trying . He 'd say , Hey , brother , cut @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and I might say , It 's cool , or I might say nothing at all but know that sometime later on , we would spend hours shooting hoop together up at the rec center , and when I 'd beaten him two out of three at twenty-one , he 'd hug me like he 'd always known what it was like to love me . <p> My father took off his sunglasses and looked down at me for a long silent moment . He was a large man with a square jaw and a wide , shiny forehead , but his skin looked soft -- a gentle , light brown . My mother must have believed in his eyes . They were gray-blue , calm and yet fierce , like the eyes of kinfolk down in Baton Rouge . His mouth was slightly open ; he was going to speak , and I noticed that his teeth were yellow when I saw him face to face . He would n't stop smiling . A thought struck me right then that he might not know who I was . <p> One @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 's roll , bro , Tyree 's leavin ' ! " <p> He jerked free and threw his friend a look that made me stiffen . <p> The man read his face and then laughed nervously . " Be cool , nigger , break bad someplace else . We got ladies waitin ' . " <p> " I 'm cool , brother . I 'm cool .. I ' My father looked back at me . In the mix of the music and the crowd , which I 'd almost forgotten about , I could barely hear him . " I 'm cold solid He crouched down , wiped his sunglasses on a shirttail , and put them in my pocket . His crouch was close . Close enough for me to smell the liquor on his breath . Enough for him to hug me . Close enough for me to know that he would n't . But I did n't turn away . I told myself that I did n't care that he was not perfect . <p> He rose without saying anything else , turned from me , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where his friends were waiting . They were insistent on him hurrying , and once they were sure that he was going to join them , they turned down the alley . I did n't cry , although I would n't have been embarrassed if I had . I watched them leave , and the only thing <p> felt was a wish that my father , on this one day , had never known those men . He started to follow them , but before he left , he stopped to look over the scene there on Eleventh Street . He looked way up the street , to where the crowd thinned out , and then beyond that , maybe to where the city was split by the train tracks , running on a loose curve around our neighborhood to the river ; or maybe not as far as that , just a few blocks before the tracks and two streets off Eleventh where , sometime earlier than fourteen years ago , he might have heard the train 's early morning rumble when he stepped from our back porch . <p> 
##1001268 THE WANDERING STORY BEGINS in the mid-1800s in Russia with a gathering of young men , nobles of some sort , at a comfortable club of their provision in a provincial town miles from the social authority of Moscow . One senses the author 's habitual questioning of the entrenched habits of power or of what passes for it in such centers as Moscow , and there seems , tacitly , the thought that such concentrations are even more closed in upon themselves than are the smaller societies of those cities and towns more remote from such confident hubs . There is also the wondering disposition of an author on the edge of the late nineteenth century in Europe , hardly a moment of significant stability even if peculiarly hushed , muted by a curious containment of impulse , a waiting for a je ne sais quoi of whatever fact . <p> I had told the story any number of times , wondering how it had been so poised , first of all , how he 'd thought of it . These reflective , reflexive moments would seem @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of . How come it 's that way , etc . Dazzling . <p> But on this evening , which memory does not now describe except that it feels cold , fragile , one of the company has discovered himself as destitute , having lost at cards or some similar adventure all of his land and money . Why he has come to the club at all one may wonder , because he now becomes the butt of his fellows , who face him with increasingly sneering contempt and dismissal . All but one , that is , for the unfortunate bankrupt has not merely a champion but a stalwart friend , who steps forward to defend his vulnerable fellow and abruptly offers him the resources of his own estate , proposing they leave the surly company and go there at once . <p> This time he had contrived to gather us in a usefully unfamiliar place , the small town ambience of clustered nobility , or at least money . Yet one in the company was broke and all the others picked on him mercilessly , no doubt to break @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if one would have to break a way through , just to get into the building . <p> What is time in such worlds ? Only the next moment , or else a vast plain of almost undifferentiated accumulation , days , years , centuries , until all moves with an oozing solidity . It is the place of cause and effect but of such scale that an eyeblink resonates for endless hours and effects such a plethora of absolutely unthinkable results . " For want of a nail , a shoe was lost .... " Is it truly just the mind which thinks of things ? Nonetheless our story continues . <p> At this moment , then , another young man there , much as all , stands up and abruptly defends the indigent person , the bankrupt , saying that he now constitutes the erstwhile victim 's support . What does he say exactly ? Something like , come home with me , your troubles are over . <p> One thing settled , another soon begins . So the friend brought home and given a securing place quickly became @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drama , which , one soon learns , is a complex but painfully vivid rapprochement with one of the household 's maids . This forthright person is an exceptionally handsome young woman who has but lately come into service and so feels no limiting habit of wary self-abasement . She is , in that sense , naive , yet not in the least unintelligent . The young man feels her equal to himself in every way , if not beyond him , in fact , in the capability of her independent manner of thinking . <p> But " there " there is no one one knows , no locating warmth or answer . She speaks from quite elsewhere , this familiar and final friend . She is not ever one or two or three . She does not divide by evens and odds . The kaleidoscopic manifestations might just as well be the fingers of one 's hands . What does one feel ? <p> No doubt there was a time when all of us , perhaps , were poised upon our own capabilities with just such a freshness , speaking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or thinking to , how we might be heard . Then we were truly lovely , endearing , utterly human in our unintentional pretensions of a world of such openness . Even the clouds might speak clearly . <p> Impatient with all conversions of love , indifferent to whatever they have been implicated to mean , he will not see beyond the enclosing tunnels of his own various intentions , his plans for immediate action . He surveys his rested body as if it were a machine , well oiled , well designed , well equipped for the tasks he has in mind to give it . <p> Now , however , complications occur which have not been anticipated . There is much discussion with the ensconced friend , who has become the ear for all such ruminations , but neither can quite understand what has happened . The love was fierce , direct and passionate . The two had met whenever able to , fell directly upon each other as massive stones weighted by an irrevocable destiny . They both were seemingly in a state of profound and absolute love @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would be , in fact , its definition , that it was finally , if uncomfortably , everywhere one was . No high roads or low roads to lead elsewhere . He has followed the wrong career , so to speak . He might have been a highly proficient opera star or a bowler , taken in the washing or counted sheep . He looked only to the other for resolutions . Where was he ? <p> Yet what had so attracted him to her -- her remarkable clarity , her determined integrity of feeling -- now rebuffs him . She has thought of all that living which her love for him must necessarily preclude , all that might otherwise happen which she will never know now , because of him . Many persons have experienced the consternation of love 's obstinate enclosure , yet few have turned away because they would not accept such transforming delight as sufficient . So she is humble in such questioning , but she knows that a life simply with him must argue against the vast potential she senses it might otherwise prove . She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leaves him nonetheless . Instantly all his life becomes a vapid emptiness . <p> It seems much like crying in a graveyard , for the loss of a loved one . The very magnitude of grief , the densities of despair , the profoundly grounded shock of absences noted so repetitively must mean that one is one of many , as was the one now gone also . I can not believe you call me back just to tell me that , so often , so expectedly , with nothing ever added . <p> You must enter this moment as closely as possible in that no time will now separate you , no other place be so far from you , that this heartbreaking confusion , this insistently destructive turn of events , will not prove familiar . When one leaves , one leaves forever , be it by fact of death , or love 's absence , or a simple misunderstanding one only recognizes as such too late . With love so lost , one 's self is no more than a painful reflection , an abhorrent survival of that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doubt . " If she be not fair for me , what care I how fair she be ... " There are certainly other dispositions in this matter . Yet they are not ours particularly , not after such a long life with so many habits in it . Triangulation sometimes sounds at least like strangulation . What a sight to see she was . You too . <p> He himself wanders , almost crazed , from tavern to tavern , village to village , and soon becomes a peculiar presence of that vast tapestry of small towns and rivers , those echoing hills and valleys , the tenacious , small presences of the local , the enduring provincial fabric of place . One day he comes upon a horse fair and watches , half distracted by his manic preoccupation , while an old horse dealer , a Jew , is set upon by irate yokels who think he has cheated them with his close dealing . Defensively the trader prepares for their attack , which is unfortunately soon coming . The frustrated crowd now batters against him with fists and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grew old and died , literally . It is the simple reality of the story that engages one 's attention . Coming into the house , one knows where things are . One follows after , concerned that our friend may do himself some real harm , now that the old companion he had rescued earlier has gone , and also the vivid love who had burned his heart so deeply . I like the looks of the old horse trader , come in from some other tale no doubt , a familiar figure in these times . He knows far more than he finds reason to speak of . Trust him . <p> A complex sense of fairness and the same unthinking ability to respond again prompt the young man to act . Instantly he has thrust himself forward , into the surly crowd 's most volatile numbers , and here he pushes one , then another , calling upon them to stand back and stop their harassing of this innocent old man . Possibly it is his own fierceness now persuades them for they hesitate , confused by his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ begin to slink off as he continues to shout at them , the trader at his side . <p> All the meannesses , the meagernesses , the pinched , small avoidances I had thought swept behind me here recollect . " Do I have perchance a debt to a man named ... " Most echoing the gray morning we awoke to find ourselves entangled against affectation or loyalty , struck again by the world 's defensive patterns . Do you remember how the boys feed bread with a fish hook in it to that old dog who waits each day for them as they pass on their way to and from school ? I think of you across the long years still waiting , etc . <p> Expectably the one he has rescued is grateful indeed . Who can say what his actual conduct has been ? In this close world such an outsider must of necessity be suspect and that generality itself no doubt serves to prompt a behavior unlike the common . Shrewdly he considers his benefactor even as isolated as himself . He must sense that for this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the singularity of his own life . Almost with foresight the trader thanks the younger man with the gift of one of his horses , a magnificent gray stallion , a dream of compact energies and astute breeding . It is his prophetic thanks for the wonder of their meeting , just in time . <p> There are no parallels , there are only repetitions . Off I ride on my cousin 's half-horselike gray pony across the farmer 's fields where the cows feed under the apple trees . They startle to see us come at them and begin themselves to run , some dragging tether ropes and chains . Vive le peuple ! There are so many stories still to tell . <p> So a new chapter begins , so to speak , and our hero is utterly possessed by his miraculous steed . Noble visitors to that remote landscape , themselves out riding to dispel the tedium , confront an unexpected arc of speed across their prospect , a rush of thundering hooves which carry the concentrated owner past them in a blur . All attempts to make @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ horseflesh , fail . It is adamantly not for sale . Days now pass in the rigorous routine of the horse 's care and exercise . The obsessed owner all but lives in the stable except for those hours he spends in the saddle , pounding over the expansive wastes of valley and hill . <p> Yet when he had finally bought the stupid car and managed to get it back to his house without incident , he then tried to secure it within the far too small garage only to mistake controls in the process and so lumbered on through the rear end of the flimsy building out into the backyard where his vague companion stood hanging sheets , amazed . Together they watched an angel descend with gauzy wings and a severely sunburned forehead , impatient that their faith required its attendance when all else in the universe was so markedly more attractive . The dogs , meantime , sat on the sidewalk and laughed . <p> But then , one morning , he goes in usual fashion to attend his magnificent steed only to find it gone . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ? Surely there must be a comforting explanation . Slowly , despairingly , he recognizes that the horse has been stolen , which has for many days been even unthinkable , yet nonetheless present in the back of his mind because of the intense and persistent interest in acquiring the horse all had shown . He tears at his body and clothing in anger . He confronts with rage all his staff . How has the horse been so let loose , in care and now in fact ? His despair becomes absolute as he ranges far and wide , asking questions of all he meets but never finding even a wisp of evidence as to the horse 's whereabouts . He applies to the old trader for advice but the man can only say that he will put out the word and report such findings as come of it . <p> No one ever said it could work out . You pay your money and you take your choice . Would it be better never to step outside the house . There are people who live whole lifetimes together , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speak , just write little notes like , " I am going to the doctor 's , " or " The upstairs toilet has backed up . " The small voice hardly of conscience says silently I love your big fat tits , your huge penis , but then I have little say in these matters . Those are unseemly thoughts at best . Think of the one that got away . <p> If the end of things were as expected , then the story would itself wander off , past the interval of initial friendship , the transforming love then following to lead him elsewhere , the sudden truncation of all he had thus come to look to , and then an old and vulnerable horse trader and the gift of the wondrous horse , then its loss , and thus the end . Many years have passed and that friend first met in all his vulnerability has long since died . The woman too may well be a grandmother . But this is quite another tale and so one day the old trader comes to the man 's house @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . By means of his extensive fellows in the trade the gray horse had been recovered and now all might be as before . <p> Maybe Lazarus would have preferred to let things be , however grateful he was reported as being . The stories of that book are finally buried under the apparent doctrine , which is , as all such , there to make a point . If it were the keys to the car , then welcome always their recovery . Yet if blame were to follow ? I have nothing more to say on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me . What sort of writer could that be . <p> The routine again begins , the procedures of the stable , the long rides over the adjoining estates and woods , and life returns almost as if the blood came back into a body . Daily he feels himself blessed by a bounty no human can ever feel deserved . Then a simple question comes , almost as if it too were a wanderer , a traveler from some distant place prompted by no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A neighbor , well meaning , one morning had asked him if he were finally certain that this was the horse which had been stolen from him . Of course , he said , how could it be otherwise ? The horse so performed , the color of its coat was just the right shade of gray -- what could be suspected as different ? But , said the man , it is a well-known fact that a young gray will show a distinct change of shading in that color after its yearly shedding . Is that so , he felt , and how could it be that he had not thought of it , having thought of everything else imaginable ? So , the reasoning went , if this horse is just that gray you remember , then it can not be your horse since that gray would now be not the same . But it was , of course , his horse . Who should know better ? No one , at last he had to realize . Now no one will ever know at all . <p> So @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through the words of another person , an Englishwoman whose son then came to live in the house of one of my wife 's elder relatives , wherein both were eventually to die without the reminiscences one might well have hoped to have heard . Possibly the son 's being a writer argued the necessity of some other thing to say , some requisite distance . Our author speaks of none of them . But the mother 's sensitive listening had made his initiating words carry a formidable distance , like the faded country squire upon the great gray horse 's back . I may wonder why she thought to break it into two halves , like a cookie , but what after all do I know of her , except that she too cares ? The green trees grow more slowly . The river winds on . <p> Waldoboro , Maine 16 August 1992 <p> 
##1001270 In the village of Rossiniere , in Switzerland , Ann is handed a piece of gold leaf to eat . <p> " It 's good for the digestion , " Cecile tells her in her accented English . " It 's good against arthritis , too . " <p> Both girls laugh . Both girls are too young to worry yet about arthritis . <p> " I eat it all the time -- an expensive habit . My parents would be furious if they knew , " Cecile says as she goes back to the lamp she is restoring and to which she is applying the gold . Her strokes are quick and sure and she uses a curious instrument with an agate head to make the gold shine . <p> Ann shuts her eyes and puts the gold leaf -- a little gelatinous and more like mercury than gold -- into her mouth . The gold feels like paper and , because her mouth has gone dry , she has difficulty swallowing it . With an effort , she forces the gold down and feels its uneasy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> This is Ann 's first time in Switzerland and her first week in Rossiniere where she is living with Cecile and her family for the summer . Cecile 's family owns an antique store that specializes in Swiss hand-painted furniture , which they restore and sell . The painted furniture reminds Ann of American Quaker or Pennsylvania Dutch furniture , only it is more artful , more intricate . The armoires and chests in the Cottier 's store as well as in their house have elaborately painted scenes , landscapes with churches , castles , people , carriages , animals . The colors , too , are a surprise : bright mountain greens , vivid sky blues , startling blood reds , nothing like the more sober and muted Quaker and Pennsylvania Dutch colors . Ann 's bed in the Cottier 's house , for instance , is decorated with lush garlands of blue and red flowers that inspire her with an unaccustomed gaiety . Already , Ann claims that she sleeps better here than she does elsewhere . <p> " Funny , " Ann has told Cecile and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be , you know , kind of dour and sad . Instead , it 's very lively , it 's very -- " Unable to think of the proper word , Ann blushed , stopped . <p> In addition , Ann likes the Swiss furniture because each hinge , each fastening and joint , however old , still works simply and perfectly , and Ann says that , for the time being anyway , she prefers craftsmanship to invention . Also , she says she likes the fact that all the furniture is clearly dated . Josef et Marie-Therese Henchot -- 1785 is painted below the garland of blue and red flowers on the headboard of Ann 's bed so that she does not need to speculate or guess , or , in turn , be wrong . <p> Cordial and noncommittal with Ann , Cecile 's parents , M. and Mme. Cottier , too , right away include her in their routine with neither surprise nor , as far as Ann can see , any adjustments . Their lack of curiosity about her and her family , Ann attributes to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first evening volunteered that she was a twin , Mme. Cottier did not immediately ask Ann if her twin were identical or fraternal , as everyone else always did . <p> Instead , the conversation around the Cottier ' s dining room table tends to remain general and devoid of those personal remarks and innuendos Ann resents in her own family ( although one time , Mme. Cottier did mention Cecile 's short -- no , shorn -- hair , and with a look of long suffering on her face said to Ann : " You should have seen her hair before Beautiful thick hair Now , she looks like -- how can I say ? -- one of those poor people , one of those victims " ) . <p> Mostly , however , the talk is about food . M. and Mme. Cottier discuss the quality of the Gruyere and whether it has aged properly , the butter and whether such-and-such a dairy is better than another or whether it has fallen off in quality ; they speak about the peaches and whether they are as good , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ year ' s peaches , and Ann can not help but think of her own family 's meals and how everyone bolts down his food without a word , barely tasting it , as if eating were a chore rather than a pleasure . Still , Ann is amazed that such a banal topic proves inexhaustible and that even slim Cecile , who looks as if she ate nothing but celery stalks , joins in the conversation with enthusiasm and eats twice as much as Ann ever does . <p> In her hiking boots , Cecile 's slender legs look thinner , longer . Also , she is wearing short shorts . <p> Ann is wearing jeans . <p> " Where are we going ? " she asks . Then , since Cecile does not answer , Ann says , " I love to walk . " <p> Early afternoon in early July ; the road that runs through the village of Rossiniere is almost deserted -- too soon in the season yet for tourists -- only an occasional car passes them . Most of the cars in Switzerland , Ann @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ geraniums , she thinks . The window boxes of the chalets in Rossiniere are filled with geraniums , the blossoms are full , large . Gladioli , peonies still , sweet peas , snapdragons , and weedless rows of vegetables fill the gardens that border the road . In the last garden , an old woman dressed entirely in black is hoeing . Slowly , she straightens herself up and , leaning against her hoe , she watches the two girls , Ann and Cecile , walk past . No one says a word . <p> " I like your hair . Really , I do , " Ann says to Cecile . <p> Before Ann has a chance to say anything else , a car drives up -- no exception , the car is red -- slows down , stops , honks . The young woman sitting next to the driver rolls down her window and gestures with her hand . For a moment , Ann thinks she and the driver are friends of Cecile , but Ann can see out of the corner of her eye that Cecile has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the road and is crawling underneath it into the adjoining field . <p> " Ici , est-ce bien la route pour -- " the young woman calls out to Ann in halting French . <p> " Excusez-moi , Mademoiselle , mais nous sommes bien sur la route de -- " the young woman tries again a little louder while Ann continues to stare at her . No mistaking the young woman 's accent . <p> " Cecile " Ann starts to call out before she turns away . She can feel the eyes of the couple in the car on her as she crawls awkwardly under the fence . A barb snags the sweater she has tied over her shoulders , the wool tears as Ann pulls it free . <p> Cecile is halfway across the field . " Who were those people ? " Cecile asks Ann when Ann catches up with her . " Tourists , " she says before Ann can reply . <p> The field has not yet been mowed and it is filled with tall grasses and Queen Anne 's lace . The Queen Anne 's @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she reaches down and touches the tops of the flowers as she walks . Some of the flowers are pink . She is tempted to stop , to pick them . Ahead of her , Cecile has started to sing a song Ann recognizes immediately . <p> " Like no other lover -- " Cecile 's voice is loud , mock impassioned , her accent even more pronounced . <p> " Something in the way he moves -- " Ann starts to sing along with her . <p> " I love the Beatles , " Cecile tells Ann when they are finished singing . <p> " It 's a great song , " Ann agrees . She has almost forgiven Cecile . <p> In front of them , at the far edge of the field filled with Queen Anne 's lace , tall dark pines rise almost parallel to the side of the mountain . <p> Following the path up through the trees , Ann walks directly behind Cecile . The blue sky overhead is hidden from view by the tall dark pines and , except for the occasional snapping of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ amazed how quickly the countryside has changed -- twenty minutes from the village of Rossiniere with its red geraniums , and they are in no man 's land , as remote , Ann thinks , as a jungle . Above them she can hear but not see a jet , no doubt a commercial airliner , and she imagines the passengers in their seats , perhaps sipping cocktails and admiring this view from above , feeling safe as they fly over Switzerland . <p> Looking ahead at Cecile , Ann worries about whether Cecile has ever gotten lost on a walk . The dark trees frighten Ann a bit and it might take hours , days even , Ann thinks , before someone would find them , especially , say , if one of them were to fall and break her leg . Cecile 's legs would snap in a trice they are so thin . <p> Ann also wishes that they would talk as they walk . So far , Ann knows very little about Cecile . Ann would like to know , for instance , if CEcile has ever @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was a fellow student , an artist . He painted large abstract canvases filled with yellow bubbles . " Yellow is a difficult color . After van Gogh -- " Farah had shrugged his bony shoulders , given Ann a sad smile . Life , too , for Farah was difficult . In America on a grant , Farah was afraid he would be sent back to Libya , would have to stop painting . Ann sympathized -- it would be unfair . But when her parents found out about Farah , to hear them talk about it , Farah and Qaddafi were one and the same . Nothing Ann said could placate them . The angrier they got , the more determined she was to defend Farah , like a cause . Eventually , Farah did have to go back to Libya and Ann went to Switzerland -- a neutral country . But from Switzerland , Ann secretly fantasizes she can go to Libya -- it is a lot closer . This is a notion Ann clings to for her self-esteem and is not anything she has the courage to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the trees , it is colder , windier . The sky , too , is no longer blue , but gray , almost white . Ahead of them , Ann sees a moraine of stones . The stones are loose and slippery and are covered with patches of last winter ' s crusty and now dirty snow . CEcile holds out her hand to Ann and together they cross the moraine . <p> " We are nearly there , " CEcile says . <p> Ann stops , both to catch her breath and to put on her sweater . As it turns out , the hole made by the barb is right over one of her breasts . Ann sees CEcile look at it and look away . <p> CEcile is pointing toward the rocks that form the top of the mountain . At first , Ann is afraid that Cecile means that they must climb up there . The rocks are steep , sheer . Then , all of a sudden , Ann sees something move . Then something else moves . As her eyes grow accustomed to looking , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them , at least . <p> The way the chamois stand , flat against the rocks , reminds Ann of those extinct villages she has seen pictures of in the National Geographic that are carved into and perched on the sides of mountains -- long ladders are strategically placed in front of dark doorways , windows , yet the villages look totally inaccessible . <p> " I was hoping they would be here for you to see , " says Cecile . <p> Standing quietly next to CEcile , Ann watches the group of chamois . They were absorbed in eating -- tufts of dried grass , moss , lichen growing on the rocks -- but now , as if sensing the two girls ' presence , the leader raises his head , looks around . Then , leisurely , not in any kind of a rush caused by fear , all the chamois start to move on . They jump further up the mountain , first one , then the next one -- the chamois look as if they are jumping almost at random , with no specific purpose except @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to another , Ann can see neither ledge nor foothold . They float gracefully in the air , feet tucked in , head and antlers contained , and land lightly and neatly , daintily . Occasionally , a chamois dislodges a stone and the stone rolls noisily down the rock face . <p> CEcile nudges Ann with an elbow . <p> The last chamois in the group lands on his knees . When he stands up , one of his front legs does not touch the ground . The leg dangles . <p> " Oh , my God , " Ann says . <p> The chamois 's broken leg crumbles underneath him as he lands on it again . Precariously perched on his knees , the chamois struggles to get back onto his three legs ; when he does , without pausing or hesitating , he jumps to another rock . Ann watches the chamois do this several more times -- jump , fall to his knees , get back on his feet , jump again -- as he tries to keep up with the other chamois . The other chamois @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pace nor in any way acknowledge that there is something wrong . It is almost too painful for Ann to watch , while , for the chamois , there seems to be no connection between his broken leg and his falling . He just keeps jumping -- jumping from rock to rock is what a chamois does , like breathing , Ann thinks . Even if something were to go wrong with one of her lungs she would still have to keep taking breaths . <p> " I 've never seen a chamois with a broken leg before , " CEcile says to Ann on their way back down the mountain . <p> " Terrible . He wo n't survive long , " Ann agrees . <p> And , in a rush of words , Ann tells CEcile about Farah , about how she met Farah , about how immensely talented Farah is and how he must be allowed to continue painting , about how her parents are prejudiced and have forbidden her to see him , about how much she loves him -- Ann has never loved anyone else the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , although as she says all this to CEcile , Ann does not feel so unhappy . On the contrary , she feels happy to be confiding in CEcile . <p> " I wish you could meet him , I am sure you would like him , " is what Ann is saying to Cecile as the two girls emerge from the trees and once again start to cross the field filled with Queen Anne 's lace . <p> " Shall we stop here for a minute ? " is how CEcile answers Ann . <p> Obediently , Ann sits down next to CEcile in the grass while CEcile busies herself picking the flowers within her reach . <p> " Last year , at just about this time , in July , a man gave me a lift in his car . I was hitchhiking . I always did -- it 's so safe here , " CEcile is saying . In her hand , she holds several long stalks of Queen Anne 's lace and she waves the flowers at Ann . " He was French , I think . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . A tourist . " CEcile shrugs her thin shoulders and gives a little laugh , at the same time that she starts to gently brush Ann 's brow with the bunch of Queen Anne 's lace . CEcile brushes Ann 's nose with the flowers , Ann 's mouth , Ann 's chin . " He was the reason I cut off my hair , afterwards . I did it myself . I did it with nail scissors . It took me all afternoon , my hair was so long . My parents did n't know . I never told them . " <p> The flowers tickle , but Ann does not move . Ann does not speak . Ann , probably , does not breathe as CEcile brushes Ann 's neck with the Queen Anne 's lace , and , lower down , as she brushes the place where the hole in Ann 's sweater is . <p> " We 'd better get home , " CEcile finally says , throwing away the bunch of Queen Anne 's lace and standing up , " or we 'll be late @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is both worried and upset that the dinner she has been preparing will be spoiled , overcooked . M. Cottier is busy trying to choose the proper red wine to serve with the meal . When finally M. Cottier has opened the wine , a Dole , and they are seated at the table , CEcile tries to explain to M. and Mme. Cottier . <p> " You see , " CEcile says as she cuts into the duck 's pink breast , " it was my fault . I took Ann for a walk up the mountain and on the way home , we hitchhiked-I do it all the time -- and this man gave us a ride in his BMW . He was a tourist , a Frenchman , I think , or , maybe , he was a Belgian . " <p> Avoiding Cecile 's gaze , Ann lowers her head . She , too , busies herself cutting the duck meat . <p> " He would n't stop the car when we asked him to , " CEcile continues in an even voice . " He would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kept right on driving , is n't that right , Ann ? Lucky for us , the barrier was down at the railroad crossing , and Ann and I opened the door -- we were sitting in the back seat of the car -- and we jumped out . " <p> " CEcile , " Mme. Cottier says , " how many times do I have to tell you not to hitchhike ? You never know what sort of person is going to give young girls a lift . " Then Mme. Cottier says , " It is n't overdone , is it ? One must be so careful when one cooks a duck . One moment the duck is too rare , the next moment the duck is dried out . " <p> " I told you , did n't I , how I am a twin ? " Ann suddenly turns to and asks M. Cottier . " Peter , my twin brother , is exactly forty minutes older than me , and , actually , when I was born , my mother had no idea she was going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but my mother swears she did not have a clue . Neither did the doctor . My mother swears that after Peter was born the doctor thought she was through , he was taking off his mask , his gloves , he was about to leave the room , when , all of a sudden , one of the nurses called out after him : ' Wait a minute Here comes another one " <p> Without looking over at Ann , M. Cottier takes a sip of his wine and says , " I should have opened this bottle earlier , I should have let the wine breathe . " <p> That night , Ann does not sleep well . She does not sleep at all . Instead she tosses and turns in Josef and Marie-Therese Henchot 's pretty painted bed . Once when Ann opens her eyes she thinks she sees Josef Henchot standing next to the bed . With rough red hands that are more accustomed to milking cows , he is unbuttoning the row of small silver buttons on his short-sleeved black velvet peasant jacket that is exactly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to time . <p> The next morning during breakfast , M. and Mme. Cottier talk about an old armoire that has come up for sale . M. and Mme. Cottier say that they have had their eye on this particular painted armoire for a long time -- no one builds or paints armoires like this one anymore -- but the old man who owned it refused to part with it . <p> " What made him change his mind ? " Ann asks . <p> " He died , " Mme. Cottier answers , spreading more honey on her slice of bread . <p> The armoire , Mme. Cottier is sure , comes from Fribourg ; the armoire , M. Cottier is certain , has never been restored , and never in all his years of dealing with Swiss antiques has he seen an old armoire in such good condition ; the armoire , M. Cottier also says , should bring him at least one hundred thousand francs . <p> When he finishes his breakfast and gets up from the table , M. Cottier takes Mme. Cottier by the hand and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arm around Mme. Cottier 's waist , and , together , they do a little two-step dance . CEcile claps her hands . Then , standing up , she goes over to Ann and takes her hand . <p> " No , no , " Ann shakes her head , " I ca n't dance . " <p> Nonetheless , Ann lets CEcile pull her to her feet . <p> 
##1001272 The upper lip has two ridges side by side , forming between them a little gutter from the septum to the mouth . A quoi sert-il ? It must serve to lead the drippings of a runny nose to the mouth , I concluded as a child . <p> What thoughts one has . Is the voice that speaks in your head your own voice ? As you hear it when you speak , or as you try to make it sound to others ? <p> A woman once told me the voice in her head was not her voice . It said her thoughts but it was not her voice , she was quite sure . <p> Once I had three voices . The usual voice ; a second which disagreed in disgust ; and a rare third one , a voice of sickened exasperation which spoke only two words , shut up . <p> Frequently my father 's words are disapproving . When I am on the border of sleep I seem to hear him speak with preternatural clarity . His voice is not as it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . One sentence only , of preternatural clarity . I ca n't quite make it out , or I am startled more awake and ca n't quite remember it despite its clarity . The experience is like starting at a noise you do n't hear and ca n't identify until afterward . The reaction first and the realization afterward . When you burn yourself , you do n't feel the heat until you 've already jerked back your hand . What is it he says ? Perhaps I only have an impression . something has been said . <p> What would run in your mind if you knew no speech ? What runs in animals ' ? Something -- they dream , after all . <p> Whose voice did that woman hear if not her own ? She was n't sure . Why could n't it have been hers then ? No , it was not . Of that she was sure . She could n't say what the difference was , how she knew it was n't hers . It was a voice she 'd never heard before . What @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she feel about it ? It did n't frighten her but she thought it odd . It did n't disturb her or impede her thoughts but it was odd , was n't it ? It had not always been so . <p> At times she 'd pretend the thoughts it spoke were not hers at all , in order to amuse herself , or rather to let it amuse her . In doctors ' waiting rooms . On the ward . <p> Like me she was n't always aware of a voice at all , when busy and so on . And I know that sometimes there are no words at all , though I can not reflect on it . <p> Boredom makes us most aware of our voices . <p> Boredom and solitude . In grammar school when I had a runny nose I 'd try to wipe it unobtrusively with my hand . I did n't carry a handkerchief unless I had a cold , you see , and a runny nose could come unexpectedly . I 'd have to wait until my hand dried before <p> could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my hand but there were n't so many . One had to raise one 's hand to go to the bathroom for toilet paper . In itself this was humiliating enough , but with a runny nose , much worse , it seemed to me . I think I once coughed up a small handful of phlegm . I may have asked someone discreetly for a handkerchief but he had none , or I may have been too embarrassed to ask . Hard to believe , but I think I remember disposing of it by reswallowing . <p> Left alone I could amuse myself with my own fancies . One never was left alone . I developed a facade of attention which left my mind free to wander , and a mental record/playback which repeated the last sentence of what I was n't listening to if I was abruptly called to the present , but often there was n't enough freedom and I was horribly bored . My crotch would crawl , as it does when the bladder is full and must wait to be emptied . <p> She had dark @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I think . Pleasantly unkempt . Tense and direct . <p> Perhaps I am confusing her with someone else . No . I remember her intensely . <p> I love her for our affinity . No , a dialogue of unlikenesses viewed similarly . Viewed with mutual understanding . Her views stimulated my own which were inspired fondly to proceed in parallel or tangent . <p> Fevers strangely alter the inner voice , amplify it . The inner voice fondly preserves past selves . When it comes to the fore , past selves may be evoked . <p> The woman with the dark hair 's husband died . One morning sometime afterward she awoke happy , she told me . She had forgotten . Within seconds his death came back to her as a sinking of the stomach , which then became an empty space somewhere within her . Finally her thoughts dulled : everything seemed as though without purpose . <p> The reaction first . <p> Her inner voice cast around listlessly for topics but none held any interest . Nevertheless it had to carry on . <p> She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for long after , she told me : I wish it were over , I wish it were over . Nothing more . She did n't know what she had meant , what it had meant , but it comforted her , she said , as if she were holding herself in her arms and rocking herself . <p> There were times later when she became angry with him for leaving . Resentful . Her eyes would prick , her throat lump . The corners of her mouth might tremble . <p> The resentment too comforted her , she said . At first ; later it made her feel ill . Nauseated . She felt a kind of disgust , a disgust for the face , the face of resentment that occupied her mind : its wordless stare , the face of a small boy who has been unjustly punished . <p> I have lost no one but I have thought of it often . It is much the same pleasure as imagining your own death . St. Augustine said of drama that men expected it to make them feel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> As a small boy I feared any excess that people might disapprove , yet with courage I committed many . All children fear extremes , even their food must be bland . I wanted anonymous features -- nothing too long , too short , or too wide . My most painful feelings came from children 's torment of the striking . <p> Later we are only too happy to be striking . To catch the eyes of others . And merely to be different , unlike all those others , all those others who die . <p> All men are mortal , alle Menschen muessen sterben , my first text in German said . It startled me , where in English it might not have . Startled . Not the right word . The statement impressed itself upon me as the truth . <p> She was distractable . At times it was hard to talk to her . Her mind was on other things . It was unworldliness , except the other things that occupied her were trivial . The difference between distraction and absentmindedness is that the former @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ things to Come , the small acts yet to perform . Brushing her hair back with one hand . It bushed forward , again in the way . Her eyes would dart from object to object as her thoughts moved among future acts . Perhaps she bit her lower lip , took the left corner of it between her teeth , or perhaps I only have the impression she did . An actress playing her would bite her lip . What ? she would say to your remark or question , what ? a bit too loudly and too quickly . What ? <p> Were it not for that note of desperation I 'd envy her , envy all those for whom life is too many things to do in too little time . It seems the opposite to me , you see . At the worst times there seems to be nothing to be done and even at the best too little . <p> I said I have never lost anyone so dramatically as she did , by death . My losses are to time . Mine disperse in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fog rolls behind me . <p> Yet fogs have always comforted me . Fog and certain secret phrases , incantations I use in desperate circumstances . The words lull . Fogs and myopia soothe . <p> Myopia , Myopia : a Racinean heroine . The sister of Somnos , who knits the raveled sleeve . There are those whose voices tell them puns . ( Myopiate . ) Perhaps on a full stomach . Late at night comes the neoclassic verse . Late at night and in certain states of drunkenness . <p> She told me she had ideas , thoughts , movements in the back of her mind which she could n't put into words . I know things that can not be put into words , she said : I try , but even to me they do n't sound right . <p> I found this hard to understand . I used to understand . I remember thinking myself in some woods , in the pine woods of my childhood , thinking I had thoughts for which I had no words . I almost had words for them , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she did : I knew things for which there are no words . I only think now that I thought the words would come because I know now that they have come . Or I am no longer capable of wordless thoughts . <p> Thoughts are only words to me now . Not merely , there is nothing mere about it . Perhaps I know only words now . What is an idea before it is words ? Nothing . <p> The mot juste . What does that mean ? I ca n't understand what that means anymore , though I think I used to know . One word means one thing and another means another . <p> Often I do n't know what I think about what happens . But it does n't seem to me I do n't know the words for what I feel , but that I do n't know what I feel . When I know , I know the words . <p> It 's true they may not come easily . It 's hard to dredge up the words that become what I am . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , not to bind upon them thongs which the things they are about elude . I feel this as if it were irresponsible , an indulgence to content myself with illusory form where there is real chaos . I find it perilous to exchange the real and confused for the clear but false : within me an Augustinian devil , drama , rapes chaste Night to beget Space and Time . <p> Can I feel without knowing the words ? <p> ( I may know the words . ) <p> Yes , it is possible but grows harder . I used to . She said she did -- I see no reason to doubt . It 's possible but harder all the time . <p> Perhaps thinking was easier for me than her . An easy gestation , a natural birth . But pregnant she felt her foetus a foreign growth , malignant . <p> How hard she lived I can not know . Is it easier to have another 's voice speak one 's thoughts ? <p> You may wonder at this dwelling without progress . This subject obsesses me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an underground cartoonist , saw people as cartoon characters , expressing themselves in thought balloons . Either during his breakdown or always . Himself too , I think . Thought balloons . I understand . During the years Henry Miller wanted more than anything to be a writer -- he thought in written sentences , fully punctuated , he has written . I have felt those periods . On acid I 've seen my life a cartoon , perhaps by her suggestion . Myself an animal . Each passerby becomes his totem . Miz Beaver 's tail waddles ' hind her apron . But I 've never seen a thought balloon . <p> Her husband died before I knew her , before I could 've met him . Because he wanted something so much then , that is why Miller thinks he used to be happy , though the man he describes could hardly have been happy . It is wonderful to want something . At the time it seems but a hole , but later one remembers it as an end . Realized or unrealized . <p> Objects distressed her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to need rearranging , cleaning , repair . She worried about them . <p> I am different . Things have been my consolation . They seem real . However unhappy my mind may imagine me ( or I may be , you see the problem ? ) , soap is still slippery , together with hot water it pleases the hands . <p> I 'd like to hold her now . A body is a thing . It is the only graspable of an unknowable . The most real part , do n't you see , to me it is the person . The soul is only its principles of organization , as Aristotle said . <p> I feel hysterical about these things . Passionate , without there seeming to be an object , without clear expression , principle of organization . The emotion then falls away in an emptiness , without purchase , dies away , a phantasm of the heart . Reaction without realization . After it passes there is nothing and it is hard to say what it was . <p> I feel alone now , without @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vadiverunt ? Without them it 's hard to know what I think . <p> Where is she now ? I 'd like to talk to her again . I can see her clearly sometimes , not her but movements , movements which are her , brushing back a wing of hair with the back of a hand , perhaps the palm is greasy , over a stove perhaps , cleaning something , eye movements . <p> I remember no pictures , only outlines performing motions , videotape loops . <p> I see her with strange clarity here , often at night . Perhaps her face will come to me in a dream as faces do . It is something to hope for . <p> Motions become words , pictures can not . Words do not exist without a voice but a voice may without words -- perhaps I ca n't quite hear it or do n't remember them . Words are all the same but voices various . Voices . <p> They multiply . I no longer know which to trust . There is no end to these things , no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an incantation in the night , a timeless agony of never-ending voices speaking to me over and over words that I do not care about or important words that <p> can not hear . Is there no end to these things ? There is no end to these things . <p> 
##1001277 ... As I was saying , ladies and gentlemen , before that little unpleasantness : I have just been assured , by those in position to know , that this evening 's eminent " mystery guest " has arrived , and should be with us any time now . <p> Did I say " arrived " ? In the literary sense and on the literary scene , our distinguished visitor " arrived , " of course , with her first collection of poems , or at latest with her prizewinning second . On the international political scene , as the whole world knows , she arrived with a vengeance -- excuse the poor joke , not intended -- upon the publication of that more recent , truly epical poetic satire of hers whose very title it is dangerous to mention favorably in some quarters , though thank heaven not here . At least I hope not here ; that unbecoming ruckus just now makes me wonder . And as of just a short time ago , I 'm delighted to announce , she has arrived in our city @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ introducing my introduction , I suppose we might say , while we await together the main event -- the most controversial poet of our dying century ( politically controversial , it 's important to remember , not artistically controversial , for better or worse ) is in midwhisk from the airport to our campus , to honor us by inaugurating this new lecture series . In that final sense , she should arrive here in the flesh -- the all too mortal , all too vulnerable flesh -- within the quarter hour . <p> In that meantime , I thank again the overwhelming majority of you for your patience with this unavoidable delay . It is owing , let me repeat , neither to any dilatoriness whatever on our visitor 's part nor to transoceanic air-traffic problems , but solely to the extraordinary security measures that , alas , necessarily attend and not infrequently impede the woman 's every movement . Who could have imagined that , at this hour of the world , a mere book , a mere poem , could provoke so dreadful a stir ? <p> Well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ am a writer , not of verse but of fiction : one whose " controversiality , " such as it is , is fortunately of the aesthetic rather than the political variety . And I must acknowledge that although it is my professional line of work to imagine myself into other people 's situations , I can not for the life of me imagine what it must be like for such a free , proud , articulate , sensitive , gregarious , impassioned , and altogether high-spirited spirit as our impending visitor 's to endure and even to go on making art under her constricted circumstances -- not to mention courageously putting herself in harm 's way by accepting from time to time such invitations as ours ( whose absence of advance publicity I 'm sure you appreciate , although you numbers suggest that word somehow got out despite our precautions ) . I shake my head ; I am awed , truly humbled . It was my good fortune to first meet and enjoy the company of out eminent/imminent guest some years ago , before the present storm of political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were happily just representative scribblers from two different countries sharing a lecture platform in a third -- and I heartily do not envy her present celebrity At the same time , for her sake if not for my own , I much wish that some Arabian-Nights genie could put me and every one of us who treasure artistic freedom and deplore murderous zealotry into our guest 's skin , each of us for just a single day , and she in ours , to give us the chastening , attention-focusing taste of terrorism and to give her , who must surely crave it , a bit of respite therefrom : a souvenir of the artist 's more usual condition of being blissfully ignored by the world at large . <p> But I was speaking of meantimes , was I not -- indeed , both of meantimes and of mean times , and of introductions to introductions . For some decades , as it happens , I have belonged to that peculiarly American species , the writer in the university . Indeed , it has been my pleasure and privilege for many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as well as a full-time writer of fiction . As , again , some few of you may have heard , at the end of the current semester I 'll be retiring from that agreeable association ( my replacement has yet to be named , but I do n't mind confiding to you that we 're taking advantage of this new lecture series to look over a roster of likely candidates -- not including tonight 's visitor , alas -- to any one of whom I would confidently entrust the baton of my professorship ) . There is an appropriate irony , therefore , in its having devolved upon me , as perhaps my final public action is a member of our faculty , to introduce not only tonight 's extraordinary guest speaker but also this newly endowed " Last Lecture " series that her visit will so auspiciously inaugurate . <p> Valediction , benediction : I see therein no contradiction -- and while I 'm in the **35;94;TOOLONG mode , let me pray that to my valedictory introduction there may be no further interruption .... <p> So . Well . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ impromptu brief digression on the subject of ... introductions . <p> The purpose of introductions , I have somewhere read , is normally threefold : first , to give late-arriving members of the audience time to be seated , as I notice a few in process of doing even now ; second , to test and if necessary adjust the public-address system for the principal speaker ; and at the same time ( third ) to give her of him a few moments to size up the house and perhaps make appropriate program modifications . Introductions , therefore , should go on for longer than one sentence -- but not much longer . And may Apollo spare us the introducer who either in the length of his/her introduction presumes upon the speaker 's allotted time , or in its manner attempts to upstage the introducee <p> But tonight , it goes without saying , is another story . We need not ask of it the traditional Passover question -- " How is this night different from all other nights ? " -- although that is the question that I urge apprentice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ main action of their stories . Why is it that Irma decides to terminate Fred today , rather than two weeks ago of next semester ? What was it about this satirical verse-epic of our visitor 's that provoked so astonishing and lamentable a reaction , which her scarcely less provocative earlier works did not ? You get the idea . I trust you 'll appreciate , however , that in all my years of introducing our visiting writers to their audiences , this is my maiden experience of being not so much an introducer as a warm-up act for " him who shall come after me , " as John the Baptist put it ( in this instance , her who shall etc . ) . The bona fide introduction that I had prepared -- short , short , I assure you , and not badly turned , if I do say so myself -- I am thus obliged to expand ad libitum like one of those talking heads on public television fund-raisers , either until there 's mutiny in the ranks ( but let it be more orderly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or else until our eagerly awaited guest ... <p> One moment , please . <p> She is ? Allah be praised for that ( No disrespect to that deity intended . ) <p> My friends : I 'm perfectly delighted to announce that the limousine of our so patiently awaited leadoff lecture-du-soir , together with its attendant security convoy , has reached the campus , and that therefore it should be a matter of mere minutes -- another ten or fifteen tops , I estimate and profoundly hope -- before I happily yield this podium to the Godot for whom we 've all been waiting . May that news update appease you while I now go straight to the matter of this series : <p> The anonymous benefactress who endowed " Last Lectures " ( she was , like our guest , a she ; that much I can tell you . Perhaps the muse ? ) throughout her long and prosperous lifetime was a perennial student , by her own description , and an inveterate " cultural attender , " ever present on occasions like these . In her advanced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some critical zest from the circumstance that , for all she knew , any given lecture or similar cultural occasion that she happened to be attending could feasibly be her last . It was her whimsical but quite serious inspiration , therefore , to endow handsomely a series of public lectures at this institution , with the stipulation that each speaker would be asked to imagine that this will be his or her valedictory presentation , her " last lecture " -- as , for all any of us knows , any given utterance of ours might well turn out to be . Thus would we hear our visitors ' " bottom line " sentiments , their summings up ; and thus by the way would the situation of the guest approximate that of the hostess -- who , I 'm sorry to report , went to her reward shortly after rewarding us with her philanthropy , and so can not attend , at least in the flesh , this first Last Lecture , nor any of those to follow it ( the interest on our muse 's endowment being generous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> Do I dare point out -- indeed , I do so dare , for I knew this lady and her mordant wit well enough , once upon a time , to believe that she would enjoy the irony if she wee with us -- that tonight 's circumstances have matched donor and donee even more aptly than intended , inasmuch as both are now ... forgive me ... late ? <p> Well . <p> What ? <p> Aha . Gentlemen and ladies , ladies and gentlemen : She is in the building <p> Excuse me ? Okay ; sorry there : our distinguished visitor and her security entourage are approaching the building , it seems , although for several reasons I would prefer to say that she is " in the building " -- for are n't we all , come to that , in the process of building and of being built every moment of our active lives : a-building and a-building until the end , whereafter our building , we may hope , will survive its builder ? <p> Hum . <p> The end , I 've @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And having so said , with those words I end , not my introduction -- for our guest 's custody , as it were , has yet to be officially transferred from the state and municipal security people to our own , I 'm told , or to some combination of the two , or the three : a transfer now in progress elsewhere in this building even as I end , not my introduction of our visitor , whom I 've yet to begin to introduce , but my introduction to that introduction . No fitter way to do that , I hope you 'll agree , than with a few words about ... endings . <p> Endings , endings : where to begin ? I myself am not among the number of those Last Lecture whose distinguished names you 've seen on our posters and other advertisements ( all except that of this surprise inaugurator , for good and obvious reasons ) . I do n't mind declaring , however , that I could readily deliver a last lecture myself on the subject of endings . Further , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not have done better than to begin with the opening exclamation of our Mystery Guest 's world-challenging verse-epic , which exclamation I shall take the liberty of Englishing thus : " An end to endings Let us rebegin " <p> As we wind up our century and our millennium -- this is Yours Truly speaking now , not our impending visitor , and you have my word of honor that the moment she enters this auditorium I shall beak off my spiel in mid-sentence , if need be , as Scheherazade so often breaks off her nightly narratives , and go straight to the very brief business of introducing her -- as we end our century and millennium , I was saying , it is no surprise that the " terminally malady " afflicts us . Of the End of Art we have been hearing ever since this century 's beginning , when modernism arrived on the stage of Western Civ . Picasso , Pound , Suavinsky -- all felt themselves to be as much terminators as pioneers , and where they themselves did not , their critics often so regarded @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as well , for the artistic tradition that preceded and produced them . By mid-century we were hearing not only of the Death of the Novel -- that magnificent old genre that was born a-dying , like all of us ; that has gone on vigorously dying ever since , and that bids to do so for some while yet -- but likewise of the Death of Print Culture and the End of Modernism , supplanted by the electronic visual media and by so-called Postmodernism . And not long ago , believe it or not , there was an international symposium on " The End of Postmodernism " -- just when we thought we might be beginning to understand what that term describes In other jurisdictions , we have Professor Whatsisname on the End of History , and Professor So-and-So on the End of Physics ( indeed , the End of Nature ) , and Professor **25;131;TOOLONG on the End of the Old World Order with the collapse of the Soviet Union and of international communism . <p> In short and in sum , endings , endings everywhere ; apocalypses large @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good-bye to the whales ; good-bye to the mountain gorillas and the giant pandas and the rhinoceri ; good-bye even to the humble frogs , one is beginning to hear , as our deteriorating ozone layer exposes their eggs to harmful radiation . Good-bye to the oldest continuous culture on the planet : the Marsh Arabs of southern Iraq , in process of extermination by Saddam Hussein even as I speak . Good-bye to once-so-cosmopolitan Beirut and once-so-hospitable Sarajevo , as we who never had the chance to know them knew those excellent cities . The end of this , the end of that ; little wonder we grow weary of " endism , " as I have heard it called . <p> And yet , my patient-beyond-patient friends , things do end . Even this introductory introduction will end , take my word for it -- and I wish I could add " the better the sooner , " as one might sigh at the end of splendid meals , splendid sessions of love , splendid lives , even splendid long novels : those life-absorbing , life-enriching , almost life-displacing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might never end , yet savor the mote for knowing that they must . Yea , verily , I declare , things end ; our late muse/benefactress 's enviable life , our own productive lifetimes , and soon enough our biographical lives as well -- happily or haplessly , all end . As I like to tell my students ... <p> Excuse me ? <p> Very well , and hallelujah : She is proceeding at this very moment with her security escort through the several checkpoints between our improved safe-reception area belowstairs and our final staging area , just ... offstage , excuse that wordplay -- and will you gentlemen in the rear of the hall kindly return to your seats pronto and spare us all the indignity of once again marshaling our marshals , so to speak -- who , as that earlier demonstration demonstrated , are standing by . I thank you in advance . I thank you . Now , please ... <p> As I was saying : I advise my student apprentices to read biographies of the great write they admire , in order to be encouraged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attended their apprenticeship -- but I recommend they skip the final chapters of those biographies . For a writer , after all , the alternative " last-chapter " scenarios are almost equally distressing , quite apart from the critical reception of one 's works during one 's mortal span : either the end comes before one has had one 's entire say ( we recall John Keats 's fears that he might cease to be before his pen had gleaned his teeming brain ) -- What an unspeakable pity , so to speak -- or else one goes on being and being after one 's pen has gleaned et cetera : not so much a pity as simply pathetic . Therefore , say I to my coachees : skip the endings . <p> The biographical endings , I mean : the endings of the great authors ' life-stories . To the endings of those authors ' great stories , on the other hand , I urge and enjoin apprentice writers to pay the most scrupulous and repeated attention , for at least two reasons , of which it wo n't at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ share with you only the first before this endless introduction happily ends -- its happiest imaginable ending being that it never gets there , if you follow my meaning . <p> Reason One is that it 's in a story 's Ending that its author pays ( or fails to pay ) his narrative/dramatic bills . Through Beginning and Middle the writer 's credit is good , so long as we 're entertained enough to keep turning the pages . But when the story 's action has built to its climax and started down the steep and slippery slope of denouement , every line counts , every word , and ever more so as we approach the final words . All the pistols hung on the wall in act one , as Chekhov famously puts it , must be fired in act three . Images , motives , minor characters -- every card played must be duly picked up , the dramaturgical creditors paid off , or else we properly feel shortchanged on our investment of time and sympathy , the willing suspension of our disbelief . <p> There are , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by brilliantly defaulting on them : apparent non-endings that are in fact the best of endings , anyhow the most appropriate . We might instance the alternative and therefore inconclusive endings of Dickens 's David Copperfield and John Fowles 's French Lieutenant 's Woman ; the roller-towel ending/rebeginning of James Joyce 's Finnegans Wake ; the recombinatory " replay " ending of Julio Cortazar 's Hopscotch , to name only a few examples ; likewise the more immediately contemporary phenomenon of " hypertext " fiction : those open-endedly labyrinthine computer-novels that may be entered , transited , and exited at any of many possible points and waypoints . Such non-endings , I repeat , if managed brilliantly ( and a mighty if that is ) , can be the most apt imaginable , and ipso facto the most satisfying . <p> And the reason for that , my friends ( Reason Two of two , which I , for one , never imagined or wished that I would find myself giving voice to here tonight ) , is this : that every aspect of a masterfully crafted story , from its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of scene , its choreography , tone of voice , and narrative procedure , its sequences of images and of actions , things said and things left unsaid , details noticed and details ignored -- everything about it , in short , from its title to its ending , may be ( nay , will be ) a sign of its sense , until sign 2nd sense become , if not indistinguishable , anyhow inextricable . <p> Of this ground-truth , no apter demonstration can be cited , I trust you will agree , than our first Last Lecturer 's - <p> Will you please , you people there in the back ... What ? <p> What ? <p> Oh my . I say , there <p> As ... Dear me What now ? ... <p> As I ... As I was <p> 
##1001350 THE WHITE SNAKE . <p> Long ago , behind he Great Wall of China , there lived a young girl named Lien whose parents were carried off by bandits . The bandits had no use for a small girl child , so they left her in the deepest part of the forest . <p> The forest animals though Lien so beautiful that they only stared at her and never once thought of eating her . Instead , they began to teach her to speak their language . She called them Sister and Brother and learned many of their secrets . <p> Lien loved all the animals , but her favorite was a white snake . When Sun shone , the white snake followed Lien through the forest . When Moon rose , the white snake slept under her hand . If Lien asked for a pear , the white snake searched the boughs of the pear tree until it found the juiciest pear . And when Lien grew sad thinking of her family , the white snake entertained her with the Dance of the Green Ripples . The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and Lien taught the snake to do thing that no snake had known how to do since the beginning of time . <p> As Lien grew older , tales of the young woman and her white snake reached the ears of the Jade Emperor . Nothing would do but that he possess this white snake for himself . He sent messengers to bring him the snake and the young woman . <p> The white snake warned Lien that strangers were approaching the forest . " they come by the S-S-S-Silk Road , " hissed the snake . " That means they come from the Jade Emperor hims-s-s-self . " But Lien was curious about the Emperor and his splendid palace at the top of Flower Fruit Mountain . She was so curious that the snake could not convince her to hide from the Emperor 's messengers . And so it was that Lien and the white snake were pushed into the back of cart and taken before the Emperor . <p> The Emperor scarcely looked at Lien as he ordered her thrown into the dungeon . He has eyes for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Emperor commanded the white snake to work its magic . But without Lien to tell it what to do , the white snake was no different from any other snake . The emperor was furious when her realized that the snake would work no magic for him . <p> He ordered Lien to be put in a cage in the courtyard so that all his subjects could see what happened to those who tried to fool him . The white snake was put in a smaller cage nearby . <p> Lien-the proud forest girl-now spent her days in miserable cage . To pass the time , she made friends with the palace animals . Some of them brought her bits of food to eat . Others told her stories . The birds sang her to sleep , and the palace cats kept her warm at night . The only animals who were rude and unfriendly were the palace dogs-great , ugly beasts who snarled at her every time they swaggered past . <p> But all this time Lien was thinking . One day she whispered to her friend the white @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " Once they think your are dead , they will toss you outside the palace gates . Return to the forest and gather our friends . Wait for me , all of you , outside the gates on the first night of the second moon . " <p> Lien watched the guards throw the white snake over the palace walls , and she knew it was time for the second part of her plan . <p> That night , when the fierce palace dogs passed her on their rounds , Lien was crying loudly . <p> " What 's that ? " said one of the dogs with a sneer . " The proud forest woman is crying ? " <p> Lien moaned , " I can not do it . If only the sun would not rise tomorrow . Oh , ah , who will save me ? " <p> The dogs listened to all this and were curious . " What is it that you can not do ? " they asked . <p> " Oh , ah , it is too dreadful , " groaned Lien . She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said , " The Emperor has ordered me to be further punished by eating a cartload of raw meat in the morning . " <p> " Raw meat ? " wondered the dogs . <p> " Aaaiiieeee , how will I bear it ? " cried Lien . <p> One of the dogs said boldly , " Why , you should not have to bear it . I will eat it for you . " <p> Lien said , " But , you see , the Emperor has ordered that the cartload of raw meat be put here inside my cage . " <p> The dog thought for a moment . " That is simple enough , " he said . " I will take your place . " <p> At that , the other dogs began to howl . " Why should it be you ? " they cried . " I do n't mind sitting in a cage to wait for a cartload of raw meat . " And they argued fiercely among themselves . <p> Finally Lien said , " Perhaps you could all fit in here . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . " And that is what they did . The dogs freed Lien , and she looked them up in her place . <p> It was then the first night of the second moon , and at the palace gates Lien found the faithful white snake and her other animal friends . But they were not alone . With them were a woman and a man . <p> The story of Lien and the white snake , passed from one village to another , had reached her parents after they escaped from the bandits . They knew Lien must be their own daughter , lost to them so long ago , and they had been traveling for weeks to reach the palace . <p> After they all shed tears of happiness , Lien explained to her parents and her animal friend what they must do . <p> Without the dogs to give warning , the Jade Emperor and his court were rounded up by Lien and her animal friends . Before he quite knew what was happening , the Emperor found himself on a ship sailing for the farthest reaches of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who became known throughout China as the kind , clever Lotus Queen . And always by Lien 's side was her friend and advisor , the white snake . <p> Illustration ( Chinese girl under tree hand feeding bird ) <p> 