the blind assassin
so i never update, but i do read my friends page every day.
"He goes to the window, looks out. Icicles like brownish tusks depend outside the glass, taking their colour from the roofing. He thinks of her name, an electric aura encircling it - a sexual buzz like blue neon. Where is she? She won't take a taxi, not right to the spot, she's too bright for that. He stares at the streetcar stop, willing her to materialize. Stepping down with a flash of leg, a high-heeled boot, best plush. Cunt on stilts. Why does he think like that, when if any other man said that about her he'd hit the bastard?
She'll be wearing a fur coat. He'll despise her for it, he'll ask her to keep it on. Fur all the way though.
Last time he saw her there was a bruise on her thigh. He wished he'd made it himself. What's this? I bumped into a door. He always knows when she's lying. Or he thinks he knows. Thinking he knows can be a trap. An ex-professor once told him he had a diamond-hard intellect and he'd been flattered at the time. Now he considers the nature of diamonds. Although sharp and glittering and useful for cutting glass, they shine with reflected light only. They're no use at all in the dark.
Why does she keep arriving? Is he some private game she's playing, is that it? He won't let her pay for anything, he won't be bought. She wants a love story out of him because girls do, or girls of her type who still expect something from life. But there must be another angle. The wish for revenge, or punishment. Women have curious ways hurting someone else. They hurt themselves instead; or else they do it so the guy doesn't even know he's been hurt until much later. Then he finds out. Then his dick falls off. Despite those eyes, the pure line of her throat, he catches a glimpse in her at times of something complex and smirched. Better not to invent her in her absence. Better to wait until she's actually here. Then he can make her up as she goes along."
VI Aliens on ice
"Why is a honeymoon called that? Lune de miel, moon of honey - as if the moon itself is not a cold and airless and barren sphere of pockmarked rock, but soft, golden, luscious - a luminous candied plum, the yellow kind, melting in the mouth and sticky as desire, so achingly sweet it makes your teeth hurt. A warm floodlight floating, not in the sky, but in your own heart."
VII Postcards from Europe
The Blind Assassin
-Margaret Atwood
"He goes to the window, looks out. Icicles like brownish tusks depend outside the glass, taking their colour from the roofing. He thinks of her name, an electric aura encircling it - a sexual buzz like blue neon. Where is she? She won't take a taxi, not right to the spot, she's too bright for that. He stares at the streetcar stop, willing her to materialize. Stepping down with a flash of leg, a high-heeled boot, best plush. Cunt on stilts. Why does he think like that, when if any other man said that about her he'd hit the bastard?
She'll be wearing a fur coat. He'll despise her for it, he'll ask her to keep it on. Fur all the way though.
Last time he saw her there was a bruise on her thigh. He wished he'd made it himself. What's this? I bumped into a door. He always knows when she's lying. Or he thinks he knows. Thinking he knows can be a trap. An ex-professor once told him he had a diamond-hard intellect and he'd been flattered at the time. Now he considers the nature of diamonds. Although sharp and glittering and useful for cutting glass, they shine with reflected light only. They're no use at all in the dark.
Why does she keep arriving? Is he some private game she's playing, is that it? He won't let her pay for anything, he won't be bought. She wants a love story out of him because girls do, or girls of her type who still expect something from life. But there must be another angle. The wish for revenge, or punishment. Women have curious ways hurting someone else. They hurt themselves instead; or else they do it so the guy doesn't even know he's been hurt until much later. Then he finds out. Then his dick falls off. Despite those eyes, the pure line of her throat, he catches a glimpse in her at times of something complex and smirched. Better not to invent her in her absence. Better to wait until she's actually here. Then he can make her up as she goes along."
VI Aliens on ice
"Why is a honeymoon called that? Lune de miel, moon of honey - as if the moon itself is not a cold and airless and barren sphere of pockmarked rock, but soft, golden, luscious - a luminous candied plum, the yellow kind, melting in the mouth and sticky as desire, so achingly sweet it makes your teeth hurt. A warm floodlight floating, not in the sky, but in your own heart."
VII Postcards from Europe
The Blind Assassin
-Margaret Atwood