Caucasian woman, early 20s, with short brown hair and hoop earrings, wearing a long dark overcoat and green scarf, a book bag slung over her shoulder.
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath (faber and faber)
Page 127:The sailor put his arm around my waist, and for a long time we walked around the Common like that, the sailor stroking my hip through the green dirudl skirt, and me smiling mysteriously and trying not to say anything that would show I was from Boston...
She looks older than her ten years, but at thirteen he still knows it's odd that they should be walking down the beach away from the hotel. He flattens his part and tells her about life on a boat. He can't look away from her sea green eyes, her sunkissed nose, yesterday's burn flaking from her chest. Maybe she reminds him of his little sister. He flattens his part again and takes her hand, turning it face up. Pressing the vein at her wrist he tells her that she'll go limp in thirty seconds if he doesn't ease up. She holds his gaze, bending at the knees around the twenty second mark. He drops her arm and straightens his belt waiting on a ten-year-old to give him a cue. She says they should head back now and he's grateful.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Bloor Line, reading for pleasure now that exams are over.
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1 comment:
I'm running into this book everywhere lately. A good friend of mine who actually mostly fits the description of your young lady (wrong part of town to be her, though) recommended it to me as her favourite book, and then I ran into a pile of about a hundred remaindered copies at BMV. One of them now sits on my writing desk, patiently waiting for the end of May (I impose a moratorium on books known to be depressing during April and May, for various reasons).
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