Turkeys and Modern Art
I have been rereading Skinny Legs and All because I sick of all my other books. I think I will have to hunt down everything by Mr Robbins before too long...
It was a bright, defrosted pussy-willow day at the onset of spring, and the newlyweds were driving cross country in a large roast turkey.
The turkey lay on its back. as roast turkeys will; submissive, agreeable, volunteering its breast to the carving blade, its roly-poly legs cocked in a stiff but jaunty position, as if it might summon the gumption to spring forward on its feet, but, of course, it had no feet, which made the suggestion seem both empty and ridiculous, and only add to the turkey's aura of goofy vulnerability.
Despite its feetlessness, however, its pathetic podalic privation, this roast turkey - or jumbo facsimile thereof - was moving down the highway at sixty-five miles an hour, travelling faster, further on its back than many aspiring actresses.
Then 200 odd pages later:
Surrounded by art? The turkey was art. The art cardinals had ordained it so. Well, she would wager that it was the only work in the Modern Museum in which a couple had enjoyed a honeymoon, although on second thought, there were several pieces in the collection that looked as if they had been fucked over.
It was a bright, defrosted pussy-willow day at the onset of spring, and the newlyweds were driving cross country in a large roast turkey.
The turkey lay on its back. as roast turkeys will; submissive, agreeable, volunteering its breast to the carving blade, its roly-poly legs cocked in a stiff but jaunty position, as if it might summon the gumption to spring forward on its feet, but, of course, it had no feet, which made the suggestion seem both empty and ridiculous, and only add to the turkey's aura of goofy vulnerability.
Despite its feetlessness, however, its pathetic podalic privation, this roast turkey - or jumbo facsimile thereof - was moving down the highway at sixty-five miles an hour, travelling faster, further on its back than many aspiring actresses.
Then 200 odd pages later:
Surrounded by art? The turkey was art. The art cardinals had ordained it so. Well, she would wager that it was the only work in the Modern Museum in which a couple had enjoyed a honeymoon, although on second thought, there were several pieces in the collection that looked as if they had been fucked over.