Scratching the Head
We respect her from learning from her. Let us compile the factors of her failure. We could not find hereditary factors. We said, “Tell us about yourself.”
At the zenith of her life, in her mid-forties, she changed. She met the man who awakened her oldest erotic feelings.
“What a nightmare!” she said. “Why can’t it be over? When I touched his arm, my hand was on fire. When I am nowhere near him, there’s a sledgehammering down here.”
She gestured, not shyly, toward her genitalia. She inquired, “I have never heard of that. Have you?”
Perhaps we should leave the question as it is.
She asked herself aloud, “Do I have the moral force to finish my life?”
Her phleglomania was the phenomenomenom that had set in. Her highest average speed of forty-five miles per hour she achieved in her automobile. Sometimes she briefly closed her eyes, she said, while driving, because, she said, “What could possibly happen?”
She had a regal calmness. That should sound familiar.
Her instincts for victory, her naturally fierce nature, the entire inheritance of her species, the will to seduce and ensnare, all her cruel powers were melted into a cordial, into a very old sweet, smile—but that’s what’s been said.
Let us endeavor to sum up. How much repetition does it take? A perseveration? Biological investigation is required to explain the impulses and their transformations—the chief traits of a person. It is easy to forget, not that we ever should, that everything in this world is an accident, including the origin of life itself, plus the accumulation of riches. We should show more respect for Nature, not less. An accident isn’t necessarily ever over.