On the Dust Jackets of Even the Filthiest Books


But why must they drag it all out?  These lessons in the alphabet.  How to stand on your own, like a statue of Napoleon, even when the wind has decided to undo its good works in Denmark.  On the island of Java.  You know the story.  The twenty-five different families all competing for the same space above the butcher's shop.  The cabal of local magistrates and educators financing the operation on the backs of the very people who decided to undertake it.  Who found themselves adrift in the sort of tub made famous in nursery rhymes.  On the dust jackets of even the filthiest books.  Mark well, though, the taboos with your highlighter.  Set them aside as a reminder of what you've been neglecting.  At least when the tattooed woman is in town.  She doesn't seem quite the same.  As if a skull had been moved laterally across her belly.  As if there had been three canaries at the shoulder blade and now there are only two.  But they are nonetheless impressive for all that, harboring (you can tell) resentment and lust in equal proportions.  Like sailors let loose on those who scuttled their johnboats.  Or those women who tell you one thing Thursday, then repeat it the following week.  But with the light in their eyes missing, so that you know they have accepted someone else's version of events.  They have already defected.  
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