Sublime

The unfortunate girl was found wandering the streets in despair, since the map was inaccurate and the Mayday contacts turned out not to exist.

The letters were so precious to her, and what were they? They were bland and prosaic, three readings out of four. But when they touched her, she was suffused with joy. There was no other word for it. She knew that if she had kept them, she would still look at them to see if there was anything in them to account for the sweet power they had had for

the one about the girl with moonlight in her eyes.

And if I am able, even briefly, to give you a Wilkes’-eye-view of the world—if I can make you understand her madness—then perhaps I can make her someone you sympathize with or even identify with. The result? She’s more frightening than ever, because she’s close to

“You ever read that old bugger Nietzsche?” he asked. “A little,” I said. “You know what he said about love? Said it’s a state where we see things widely different from what they are.” “Pauline?” “Yup. It didn’t take long to unsee those things. I guess it started when we went to live with her folks in Piggott.