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WHAT SNOW WHITE REMEMB<var></var>ERS:THE HUNTSMAN
THE FOREST
THE STEAMING KNIFE
"I WAS fair once," Jane said. "I was the fairest of them all. Men came from miles around simply to be in my power. But those days are gohose better days. Now I cultivate my mal<mark>..</mark>ice. It is a cultivated maliot the pale natural malice we knew, when the world was young. I grow more witchlike as the hazy days imperceptibly meld into one another, and the musky months sink into memory as into a slough, sump, or slime. But I have my malice. I have that. I have even ied new varieties of malice, that men have not seen before now. Were it not for the fact that I am the sleepie of Hogo de Bergerac, I would be total malice. But I am redeemed by this hopeless love, which places me along the human tinuum, still. Even Hogo is, I think, chiefly enamored of my malice, that artful, richly formed and softly poisonous work of growths. He luxuriates in the pain potential I am surrounded by. I think I will just sit here on this porch swing, now, swingily in the moist m, and remember better days. Then a cup of ese-restaura 10 a.m. Then, bato the swing for more better days. Yes, that would be a pleasant way to spend the forenoon."
AT the horror show Hubert put his hand in Snow Whites lap. A shy aive gesture. She let it lay there. It was warm there; that is where the vulva is. And we had brought a thermos of glittering Gibsons, to make us happy insofar as possible. Hubert remembered the Trout Amandine he had had the day the ball was stig to Kevins leg. It had beeremely tasty, that trout. And Hubert remembered the versation in which he had said that God was cruel, and someone else had said vague, and they had pulled the horse off the road, and then they had seen a Polish picture. But this picture was better than that one, allowing for the fact that we had experiehat one in translation, and not in the naked Polish. Snow White is agitated. She is worried about something called her "reputation." What will people think, why have we allowed her to bee a public sdal, we must not be seen in publi famille, no one believes that she is simply a housekeeper, etc. etc. Thes<var></var>e s are ludicrous. No one cares. When she is informed that our establishment has excited no special i in the neighborhood, she is bitterly disappointed. She sulks in her room, reading Teilhard de Chardin and thinking. "My suffering is authentiough but it has a kind of low-grade crete-block quality. The seven of them only add up to the equivalent of about two real men, as we know them from the films and from our childhood, when there were giants on the earth. It is possible of course that there are no more real men here, on this ball of half-truths, the earth. That would be a disappoi. One would have to tent oneself with the subtle falsity of color films of unhappy love affairs, made in France, with a Mozart score. That would be difficult."
Miseries and plaints of Snow White: "I am tired of being just a horsewife!"
DEAR MR. QUISTGAARD:
Although you do not know me my name is Jane. I have seized your name from the telephone book in an attempt to enmesh you in my s. We suffer today I believe from a lack of e with each other. That is on knowledge, so on in fact, that it may not everue. It may be that we are overected, for all I know. However I am ag on the first assumption, that we are underected, and thus have flung you these lines, whiay grasp or let fall as you will. But I feel that if you hem, you will suffer for it. That is merely my private opinion. No police power supports it. I have no means of punishing you, Mr. Quistgaard, for not listening, for having a closed heart. There is no punishment for that, in our society. Not yet. But to the point. You and I, Mr. Quistgaard, are not in the same universe of discourse. You may not have been aware of it previously, but the fact of the matter >藏书网</a>is, that we are not. We exist in different universes of discourse. Now it may have appeared to you, prior to your receipt of this letter, that the universe of discourse in which you existed, and puttered about, was in all ways adequate and satisfactory. It may never have crossed your mind to think that other universes of discourse distinct from your owed, with people in them, disc. You may have, in a on-sense way, regarded your own u. of d. as a plenum, filled to the brim with discourse. You may have felt that what already existed was a sufficy. People like you often do. That is certainly one way arding it, if fat self-satisfied placy is your aim. But I say unto you, Mr. Quistgaard, that even a plenum leak. Even a plenum, cher ma?tre, be peed. hings rush into your plenum displag old things, things that were formerly there. No mans plenum, Mr. Quistgaard, is impervious to the awl of Gods will. sider then your situation now. You are sitting there in your house o Street, with your fine dog, doubtless, and your handsome wife and tall brown sons, ceivably, and who knows with yun-colored Plymouth Fury in the driveway, and opinions passing bad forth, about whether the Grange should build a new meeting hall or not, whether the children should bee Thomists or not, whether the pump needs more cup grease or not. A fortable Ameri se. But I, Jane Villiers de IIsle-Adam, am in possession of your telephone number, Mr. Quistgaard. Think what that means. It means that at any moment I pierce your plenum with a sielephone call, simply by dialing 989-7777. You are correct, Mr. Quistgaard, in seeing this as a threatening situation. The moment I i discourse from my u. of d. into your u. of d., the yourness of yours is diluted. The more I i, the more you dilute. Soon you will be presiding over ay plenum, or rather, sihat is a tradi in terms, over a former plenum, in terms of yourness. You are, essentially, in my power. I suggest an unlisted number.
Yours faithfully,
JANE
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