Three Wogs: A Novel
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her mind: she suddenly decided that she would go back to the cinema, sit on throughout the whole film, to the end this time. “My bubble’s not for bursting,” she repeated to herself in a loud voice. The girl sitting across the aisle sat straight up and appeared nervously disgusted; she slammed her book shut and watched the buildings zipping by. Fine, Mrs. Proby thought to herself, there was time for the matinee, a quick bus back home to cook the ham, and the added glory—in her own eyes, in Mrs.
distended bellies, their little dinghies, with hook-cut sails, in similiar states as they leaned over, useless, in dooms of the sucking mud. Weary, dirty, unrecognizable, up toward Delhi rolled the Whom, past the mud walls of villages, which, throughout the land, were alive with frescoes of gods, demons, men, and animals executed in yellows, ochres, and umbers, all ornamented with geometric patterns etched into the dying mud by the artful fingers of a people alive with beauty, but irrevocably
quodlibetical worries had to be resolved: 1. When Mass is being said at two ends of a church, where precisely is the Holy Ghost? 2. Was God the Father too embarrassed to become Man? 3. Had Eve a navel? 4. When Christ said “Teach my Gospel unto every creature,” was the non-restrictive term intentional, viz., life on other planets? 5. May one pray to St. Polycarp and never be distracted by the name? 6. If the Monastery of St. Medard of Soissons has a tooth of Our Lord and the Abbey of Our
what he felt must be the night side of Africa’s consciousness, the pagan throb and delightful menace of rhythms that had thundered timelessly over a continent through the uncorrupted songs of strong, black giants he’d read about, dreamt of, but never met. A bead of sensation had now appeared on Which Therefore’s faucet—and one, he felt, that could never stop dripping. “Where are you from?” Which had asked. “There,” a voice announced in a single vibration from a dark, lovely body. Cyril was
woman still as yet undefeated in the game of quinze, with which acumen, I might remind you, has something to do.” “My hopes, if you must know, Mother, are dashed quite.” Which, dispossessed of Cyril, sacrificed to expediency, and stooped over, even as a young man, with an obstinate distaste for the ways of fortune, reached over and took his mother’s hand. He was miserable. He thought of St. Swope of Croquet Island, patron saint of the twentieth century, who was decollated in his twenty-fifth