Ancient History: A Paraphase
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An uninvited guest, entering the empty New York apartment of a man known to intimates as "Dom," proceeds to write for his absent host a curious confession. Its close accounts of friendship since boyhood with two men surely unknown to Dom and certainly to each other is interleaved with the story of Dom himself.
thirteen, and he rooted for the Giants. Where was Tracy? She didn’t like sports. The handsome creature in our basement laundry room here in this benighted building asked the Super if he gave up booze for Ramadan. He looked at her and moved toward the door then halted—suddenly, so you were reminded that as usual he’d been limping. Then with his back to us head down he said, “I guess you might say we’ve put the salaam back into the salami,” and she said as if on cue, “Is that black humor?” But
it’s the Irish-Italian axis my Austrian neighbor fears, some decentralized outer Mafia. On the other hand, she smells very real; she smells of (as the big button next to the green “KISS ME I’M IRISH” in the stationery shop window says:) “SEX NOW”: she isn’t quite Utah clean under her quilted sleeves or in her demanding non-committal drawl “How you doing today?” That’s not exactly the password kids by custom exchange on the Hello Walk of Utah U. perhaps locatable most vividly as the east third of
there to the Center to discuss in realitsik” (sic, for you were tired) “dialogue even the true issue—not how classrooms or the family can be rewired, not how to defray the cost of generalized frankout, nor how to speed the processing of legislative packages, but the true issue, namely how pass from one space to another without wearing your own protective pressures, why retract from interruption into a quiet that’s divided (if at all) only in bisection by the coolest of cloisters. Oh, here at the
this would do the trick. “Wait,” Al half-rolled toward me and pointed a cigarette ember in my face. Something special, the boy in the back seat was right. “Too fast, too fast, wait…” Al sounded as if he’d been drinking again. “Yes,” said the girl, “much too fast. It’s a different generation.” “I belong to the Korean generation,” said Al. The Cannibals were in the middle—or it seemed as if it ought to be—of a number which was essentially a jaw-breaking jangle-twang like drawing a giant raw
equation—something about how one coördinated (a) one’s field contact with the distal and (b) one’s actual contact with the immediate, and I couldn’t quite work it into triangulation—and Al asked if Ev had thought he was a goddamn fool to phone up like that to apologize for my being delayed by our encounter with Doug. And I said of course not, my eardrums pounding. Al of course had wrongly assumed that Ev would tell me right away about his call. I wondered if Al had told her the truth I’d told