Wednesday, December 24, 2008

"It did not matter that it was the last of her money, that now she would have to walk home, and alone. The pilings of snow were like the white waves of a white sea, and she rode upon them, carried by winds and tides of the moon. I do not know what I want, and perhaps I shall never know, but my only wish from every star will always be another star; and truly I am not afraid, she thought. Two boys came out of a bar and stared at her; in some park some long time ago she'd seen two boys and they might be the same. Truly I am not afraid, she thought, hearing their snowy footsteps following her; and anyway, there was nothing left to steal."
Final paragraph from Truman Capote's short story, 'Master Misery' (about an old man who pays for people's dreams).

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1 comment:

joshua francis said...

I think Truman Capote writes stories and novels just so he can write final paragraphs.


i am on p.264 of Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games:

I knew in that moment that we are trapped for ever in the connections that wrap us from head to foot and bind us to each other, as invisible as gravity but as powerful. From this net there is no escape. I had come to this city alone, to be alone, but my solitude was illusion, a story I had told myself to convince myself of my strength. I had found a family, a family had found me. This Paritosh Shah was my friend, and he was my family. All the rest of them, Chotta Badriya and Kanta Bai and my boys, they were my family. I was a part of this family, and they wanted me married. I couldn't fight them. I was defeated. I nodded. I said, 'All right. I'll do what you want.'

December 24, 2008 at 10:51 PM

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