And inside he thought: What I want, Annie, is for
you to do one of your forgetting acts when Ive got access to one of your knives
and Im sure I can move well enough to use it. From outside came the steady soft
creak of lines and rigging, the slow flap of the sails in the first faint
breezes of the freshening trade winds, the occasional cry of a bird. If you
really think people who can write stories can talk worth a damn, you never
watched some poor slob of a novelist fumbling his way through an interview on
the Today show. He fled to that well now, like a thirsty animal finding a
waterhole at dusk, and he drank from it; which is to say he found the hole in
the paper and fell thankfully through it.
|