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376 pages, Hardcover
First published September 6, 2014
They think I've risked everything for a foolish show-off game. They don't understand what I'm doing. The problem will persist. There is life, as I see it, going on all around me, terrible in its uncertainty, frightening even. And there is me, as I see myself, preparing, practising, anticipating a series of performances whose timing and discipline I can't predict in advance but must be ready for at all times.
(W)hy I chose to write about the subject in fictional form; when I consider these issues in any other way, steam comes out of my ears. And steam coming out of one's ears makes for an argument undercut by its own stridency.
We can do nothing more…The distant smell of acrid smoke knows it: a summons from the burnt-up crumb cakes in the oven, which beg watching by the girls who bake them, for it is never boys who bake cakes.
We are both aged forty-four years, but do not imagine we are judged the same -- he is a man and I am a woman, and the year is 1952.
There's no starting this race over again. And still I run. I run and run, without rest, as if even now there is time and purpose and I will gain, at last -- before my spool of silence unwinds -- what I've yet to know.