Nadav Spiegelman

The City and the Pillar

Gore Vidal
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Some of the music he remembered from having heard it in other places. But
His father looked at him as though he could not quite place the face. Then he said, “Good morning,” and distantly started to read the paper. He discouraged conversation between himself and his sons, especially Jim, who had made the error of being tall and handsome and not at all the sort of small, potentially gray son Mr. Willard ought to have had.
A year older than Jim, she was pretty but pale, and disliking paleness, painted her face with a bold and imaginative hand, which sometimes made her look whorish and infuriated her father. She
“I know how it is,” said Jim, who did not know how it was.
“By the way, how you doin’ with the hog?” The messboys enjoyed kidding Jim about the plump woman at his table. Her interest in him was hardly secret. Jim laughed. “I keep her in deep suspense.”
The prose was crude, the politics Marxist, the dislike of Catholicism authentic.
On the last night they dined in a restaurant particularly recommended for those who wanted native food without diarrhea.
Boasting to a friend is one of life’s few certain pleasures.
“Is he published in America?” asked Paul. She shook her head. “I don’t think he’s ever really written anything.” “But you said he was a poet.” “That doesn’t mean he has to write poems, does it? Actually, he does nothing at all and that’s his poetry, to do nothing, with imagination of course.”