“This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune—often the surfeit of our own behavior—we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion… Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.” —Lear
From the Book
That was the summer I worked for the Westchester Commons. I was in love with Amy Snodgrass Rose. Amy was in love with David Hitchens. David was in love with Gloria Thomas. I was in Westchester. Amy was in Washington State. David was in Montreal. Gloria had gone to Paris. The sex was very safe.
And I was very lonely.
I sent a postcard every day. “Nonsmoking film major seeks statuesque redhead to share his dreams. Correction: NSFM seeks to support redhead’s dreams. Correction: NSFM dreams of redhead. Oh, you know what I mean. Anything but smoking.” I always signed it “Desperately.”
The message weren’t all that witty. I didn’t think a sense of humor was what Amy wanted in Mr. Right.