Of course we are going to get nowhere. The name in the hat
method of selecting a lover has been unlucky. They wanted us to rid ourselves
of the lovers we had had; many are said to no longer satisfy us, and there are
those who could not be found when the wheels had fallen off. How long we walked
on the roads going from there to here!
But look at the scene. The houses have at one time or
another stood on cliffs above the sea, the colonies that sprung up around, say
for instance, Massachusetts Bay. We have not remembered adequately, and that
our best bets are off is no indicator of a soon to be launched desperate
counterattack.
We were asked to burn our favorite books. With what relish
we burned our favorite books! There should be one among us who comes forward
and ruffles the feathers of this great bird, Mrs. Barot, with her gold-tipped
teeth, how everything she says seems like a sunset. There are stacks of paper
in a warehouse in Ohio catching fire, there is snowfall in South Africa, a
woman asleep in the arms of her lover, whose name she has temporarily
forgotten.
At noon we were at the bar. It was empty. Then it was
crowded. And we drank and drank.
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