Saturday, August 16, 2003

—it was the form of a woman, a kneeling woman, kneeling in front of the man, and she appeared, that is, she seemed to be—could it be?—fellating the man. Could that be right? Could his neighbour actually have a marble statue of a blow job on his piano? So that when he played, say, a Chopin polonaise, he could peer over the score and be inspired by the sculpted image of oral sex? Where, he wondered as he was ushered out the door, would a person get such a thing? He imagined all the people who had walked past this window and seen the statue without knowing what they saw: the children on their bikes and the little old ladies and the avuncular priests on their way to mass: the poor slobs, infected now with the subtle, subliminal germ of perversion. Would it one day metastasize, he wondered, colonizing the innocent with lewdness and bad taste? But that wasn't Albert's problem: Albert's problem was that his mission had failed.

J. Robert Lennon, “Five Cats and Three Women,” in Granta 82 (96)

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