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Title Page
Front
Part I
I'M LOOKING AT JACQUES-LOUIS David's 1793 oil painting, The Death of Marat, printed in an art book. The Jacobin revolutionary Jean-Paul Marat lies murdered in his bath. His head is wrapped in a towel, like a turban, and his hand, draped alongside the tub, holds a pen. Marat has expired—bloodied—nestled between the colors of white and green. The work exudes calm and quiet. You can almost hear a requiem. The fatal knife lies abandoned at the bottom of the canvas.
Part II
"IT'S SNOWING SO MUCH!"
Part III
I'M ALMOST DONE EDITING THE NOVEL. I'll be able to finish it in a week at the latest. I turn off the computer and step out onto the balcony to breathe in the change in season. It's already spring. I have more clients this time of year—because people are afraid of spring, not because they're reacting to the tedium of winter. It's not unusual to be depressed in winter, but with the advent of spring, people are expected to perk up. This expectation makes my clients feel more isolated. Everyone is imprisoned during winter; only those who can't help but be trapped are imprisoned in spring.
Part IV
WHEN C GOT THE PHONE CALL FROM K, he instinctively knew it was about Judith. C always got bad news early in the morning. In a subdued voice, K related that Judith had passed away peacefully. K didn't criticize him, which made C feel all the more uncomfortable. So he just listened. K didn't forget to ask before hanging up, "You did know it was her birthday the day you went away with her, right?"
Part V
I FINISHED EDITING THE NOVEL. IT'S still dark. I insert paper in the printer tray and print out the manuscript. Maria Callas sings from the CD player the entire night. I like her. She was eccentric and did whatever she felt like doing. Her powerful voice once blew speakers that couldn't withstand its strength, but her voice is so wondrous that she can be forgiven for that.
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