The tattoo artist on the corner of Davies Street says “Please.” “Please let me write something on your body.” After a while, the needle doesn’t even hurt, he promises, your skin just sort of goes numb. I look up at … Read More
“I look at him. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares straight ahead. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and at first I’m afraid he’s not going to open them again.”
“I sometimes wonder, would you be able to reconstruct some image of me through the objects I’ve left behind? Would you know what I looked like? Smelled like? How I acted in public and in private?”
“It all stopped, very suddenly, for Robert Bailey, just before his 31st birthday. One moment he was thinking, remembering things, talking silently and invisibly in his head—in other words, he was altogether active, interiorly speaking, and then it stopped.”
“But then the Romans didn’t want paunchy, lumpy bodies in their villas (aside from their own), so they decapitated Sokrates, already green and moldy from the hemlock, and shoved his face alone in their alcoves, dressing him up in pure white marble.”
