Excerpt:
One thinks that one is tracing the outline of the thing's nature over
and over again, and one is merely tracing round the frame through which
we look at it. (Wittgenstein)
He thinks he will go to Ronald's for a drink, it's only a block and a
half, and it's cold, but perhaps he's just been to Ronald's for a drink,
he can't remember, he can't remember exactly, because he certainly had a
drink at Ronald's sometime, or thought about having one, and Neala laughed
at him, or she's getting ready to laugh at him when he shows up tonight
looking for Ronald to pull him out of this chaos with a good drink. She's
laughing at him, reading The New York Review of Books, and
Ronald is giving him more to drink, cheap brandy--odd, because Ronald
usually spends money--and he feels he's becoming attached to the
upholstery (which is a cloth over the chair) and Ronald says, "The older I
get the more everything seems like an idea." She's laughing at him and
the dogs are snoring at his feet.
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