Snow White Read Online Free Page A

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 invented 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 continuum,
     still. Even Hogo is, I think, chiefly enamored of my malice, that artful, richly formed
     and softly poisonous network of growths. He luxuriates in the pain potential I am
     surrounded by. I think I will just sit here on this porch swing, now, swinging gently
     in the moist morning, and remember ‘better days.’ Then a cup of Chinese-restaurant
     tea at 10 a.m. Then, back into 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 White’s lap. A shy and tentative 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 sticking to Kevin’s leg. It had
     been extremely tasty, that trout. And Hubert remembered the conversation 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 experienced that 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 become a public scandal, we must not be seen in public en famille , no one believes that she is simply a housekeeper, etc. etc. These concerns are ludicrous.
     No one cares. When she is informed that our establishment has excited no special interest
     in the neighborhood, she is bitterly disappointed. She sulks in her room, reading
     Teilhard de Chardin and thinking. “My suffering is authentic enough but it has a kind
     of low-grade concrete-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 disappointment. One
     would have to content 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 complaints 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 concerns. We suffer today I believe from a
     lack of connection with each other. That is common knowledge, so common in fact, that
     it may not even be true. It may be that we are overconnected, for all I know. However
     I am acting on the first assumption, that we are underconnected, and thus have flung
     you these lines, which you may grasp or let fall as you will. But I feel that if you
     neglect them, 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 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