When the words I need to set on the page won’t come, when none of the books on my shelf offer the escape for which I yearn, when the very existence of television is an insult to my being, when everything in my pitiable little boxed-up life is already arranged as orderly as it can be, when conversation with another human being is exhausting masochism, when my fingertips are rubbed raw from idle thinking, when the crumbling joint of my knee protests against taking another step, when the volume and pitch of even the soundtrack supplied by my headphones is too much to take, when the display on the clock at the head of my bunk is an unchanging mockery — it’s times like this that my mind makes some of the strangest connections.
Today I remembered something from Edward Gorey’s morbid little alphabet book, The Gashlycrumb Tinies, which a girlfriend gave me for my nineteenth birthday. Right after “M is for Maud / who was swept out to sea”:
N is for Neville
who died of ennui
Poor Neville.
Today I remembered something from Edward Gorey’s morbid little alphabet book, The Gashlycrumb Tinies, which a girlfriend gave me for my nineteenth birthday. Right after “M is for Maud / who was swept out to sea”:
N is for Neville
who died of ennui
Poor Neville.
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