emily’s Reviews > Blind Assassin > Status Update
emily
is on page 138 of 656
‘Love,—catastrophe,—it seemed inevitable—business was booming. He’d recently expanded into celluloid & rubber—he was not a war-profiteer in that sense. But it cannot be said that he did not profit. As—she became his interpreter—who’s to say she didn’t use her own judgment sometimes? The remaining men—resented the ascendancy of women—Still,—money greases the wheels,—Elsewhere—floods—bloated cows—its stench & carnage—’
— 6 hours, 41 min ago
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emily’s Previous Updates
emily
is on page 102 of 656
‘Acid rain is taking its toll—once-keen eyes are blurred—softened—porous, as if they have cataracts. But perhaps that’s my own vision going. My bones have been aching again, as they often do in humid weather. They ache like history: things long done with, that still reverberate as pain—convolvulus blossoms—Orchids, I thought,—phosphorescent. The tulips have shed their petals—leaving the pistils bare—bedraggled—phlox’
— Nov 12, 2026 12:29PM
emily
is on page 66 of 656
‘Gods always come in handy, they justify almost anything—You’ll get over it, he says. You’ll live. The orange tulips—Yesterday I went to the doctor—He told me that I have developed what used to be called a heart, as if healthy people didn’t have one. It seems I will not after all keep on living forever—I should not have moved back here to live. But by that time I couldn’t think of anywhere—Better the devil you know.’
— Nov 10, 2026 01:33PM
emily
is on page 33 of 656
‘—stories—children whispered to one another—weaving—carpets, while they could still see—about this possible future life—that only the blind are free—Besides, it’s not a sad story—some—got away. But they became throat-cutters—They couldn’t become the carpet-merchants—or the brothel-owners. They didn’t have—capital. So they had—dirty work—Where will you be? Under the tree—chestnut. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there.’
— Nov 07, 2026 02:06AM
emily
is on page 9 of 656
‘The car fell 100 ft into the ravine, smashing through the treetops feathery with new leaves, then burst into flames—rolled down into the shallow creek at the bottom—Nothing much was left of her but charred smithereens. It wasn’t the brakes—She had her reasons. Not that they were ever the same as anybody else’s reasons. She was completely ruthless in that way. I was furious with her for what she’d done—stop howling—’
— Nov 06, 2026 11:19AM