Creepy Nice Smile
*Creepy Nice Smile*
Creepy? My stars and garters, creepy? Truly?
I've always thought smiling was simply, er, *pleasant.* Mother had a very lovely smile. And yet, my earliest memories are of a face that never smiled at all.
"Tell me, Lytton. . . .do you know the meaning of the word 'accomplice'?"
You never forget people who have been kind to you. Not to say that everyone hasn't been kind, VERY kind, but of course you DO appreciate people who are able to be THERE to be kind, and until I was fortunate enough to meet my lovely wife one person in particular seemed to be there, er, all the time.
"Do you know. . . ?"
And it truly is a debt I can never, ever repay, although I have tried, over the years, and sometimes it has been exceeding PAINFUL to continue to smile in the face of dreadful things like my poor niece Cecilia losing her sanity and then of course there was Max.
"the meaning of the word. . . ?"
I sometimes wonder whether Max ever WILL be happy in the ordinary sense of the term although it really is gratifying that he has decided to be useful after all; revenge is NOT the sort of thing one likes to see a young person dedicating himself to, even though his childhood must have been extremely traumatic . . .
"Ac-"
Which I am sure is in no way C, C, Ce-
"--complice?"
Ce-CECIL's --fault. Excuse me.
***
And naturally, since I have taken the responsibility of chronicling the family's history--
"And you can be. . . "
--I cannot afford the luxury of forgetting some of the more DISTRESSING passages --
". . . my official biographer."
--though sometimes one would LIKE to, naturally, and then there is sometimes the difficulty of reconciling the kindness of my relatives---and they all have been kind, VERY kind, of course--with the tr . . . tru. . . . TRUTH. And it does make one rather nervous, and I understand I make odd little movements with my hands, though I have done my best to stop.
And when I begin to write, I sometimes remember being quite small, and a young, unsmiling face leaning over my crib. . .
"Tell me, Lytton. . . ."
--and I remember smiling and smiling and never seeing a smile, and my cheeks twitch, and sometimes my face begins to ache.
"the meaning of the word. . . .?"
But creepy? Truly?
I'm terribly sorry.
Creepy? My stars and garters, creepy? Truly?
I've always thought smiling was simply, er, *pleasant.* Mother had a very lovely smile. And yet, my earliest memories are of a face that never smiled at all.
"Tell me, Lytton. . . .do you know the meaning of the word 'accomplice'?"
You never forget people who have been kind to you. Not to say that everyone hasn't been kind, VERY kind, but of course you DO appreciate people who are able to be THERE to be kind, and until I was fortunate enough to meet my lovely wife one person in particular seemed to be there, er, all the time.
"Do you know. . . ?"
And it truly is a debt I can never, ever repay, although I have tried, over the years, and sometimes it has been exceeding PAINFUL to continue to smile in the face of dreadful things like my poor niece Cecilia losing her sanity and then of course there was Max.
"the meaning of the word. . . ?"
I sometimes wonder whether Max ever WILL be happy in the ordinary sense of the term although it really is gratifying that he has decided to be useful after all; revenge is NOT the sort of thing one likes to see a young person dedicating himself to, even though his childhood must have been extremely traumatic . . .
"Ac-"
Which I am sure is in no way C, C, Ce-
"--complice?"
Ce-CECIL's --fault. Excuse me.
***
And naturally, since I have taken the responsibility of chronicling the family's history--
"And you can be. . . "
--I cannot afford the luxury of forgetting some of the more DISTRESSING passages --
". . . my official biographer."
--though sometimes one would LIKE to, naturally, and then there is sometimes the difficulty of reconciling the kindness of my relatives---and they all have been kind, VERY kind, of course--with the tr . . . tru. . . . TRUTH. And it does make one rather nervous, and I understand I make odd little movements with my hands, though I have done my best to stop.
And when I begin to write, I sometimes remember being quite small, and a young, unsmiling face leaning over my crib. . .
"Tell me, Lytton. . . ."
--and I remember smiling and smiling and never seeing a smile, and my cheeks twitch, and sometimes my face begins to ache.
"the meaning of the word. . . .?"
But creepy? Truly?
I'm terribly sorry.