The journalist : a novel
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When I was ten or eleven I used to stand to one side of the bathroom mirror and converse with someone I imagined out of sight around its edge, on the far side of the glass. Often I’m ashamed of such memories, but this one seems a faithful image of how I still am: the flesh-and-bones me sitting at the table and another invisible part of me pursuing its own life.
A female figure, forbiddingly helmeted like a horned Valkyrie, points the way up a muddy trail stamped by small hooves. I’m sure I know what to expect farther on but can’t remember whatever it obviously is. I slog along. At the top of the hill I find a chalet apparently made of writing paper. I approach a window to the right of the front door. I call out; someone answers. A conversation begins. “Can you let me in?” “Glue yourself together and follow the ruled lines, here in maxi format.”
Odds and ends:
After the comfort of peeing in the washbasin, remember to wipe off the edge. Far more than by the act, Daisy is disgusted by the yellow spots (really orange: rusted-autumn-leaf orange).
I haven’t been a blind fool: I’ve been completing my apprenticeship, and the God of Journals has opened the gate for me to accede to the royal way.
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