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I'm portraying her as crueler than she was. I don't think she was this way with anyone, randomly. Like her upstairs neighbor, the pipe-smoking mystery writer, who of course wanted to fuck her but rested content. (She said you two would like each other and she was right). It was as if out of sheer perversity I had switched off my high beams at night on a remote country road where WARNING signs were clearly posted: DEER CROSSING, or BEWARE SHARP TURNS, or BRIDGE FREEZES BEFORE ROAD SURFACE. By ignoring these warnings I set myself up to take the fall. Many reasons remain obscure but the one that later stood out like a burning brand hurled into the icy night, was that her cruelty was a way of getting me to back off, of letting me know that my ardor was wasted on her, and that the sooner I abandoned pursuit of a woman who was not there, the better off, happier, freer, and—alone again—I'd be— ~ Back to life alone—to women I liked to make love to, and wished would vanish the instant after; women I liked to look at; women I liked to hang with. Never the combination in one woman. And why couldn't there be a reversal as in so many novels, plays, and 30's movies? Why? It's your call. |
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