Book: And the hippos boiled in their pools

A typical modern Puritan, she was able to believe in sin without believing in God. Faith seemed to her something shameful, a sign of weakness.

She was looking for in this marriage, getting rid of perverse inclinations, a clean atmosphere where only the facts and no rushing, passions and neuroses. A subconscious desire for self-torture and self-destruction has been curbed and drawn to self-improvement, the achievement of Supreme harmony in the new Union.

I was walking down Bleecker street past the bevy of Italian boys playing baseball with a broomstick, and thought about the idea of Ala. It reminded me of his long-time fantasy: to be with Philip alone in a dark cave, where the walls are lined with black velvet and light enough only to see faces, to remain forever under the earth.

- I'll go tonight and get to his bedroom, he said.
I spat out a piece of lobster claw.
- Well you give! That's what I call taking the bull by the horns.
But al wasn't kidding.
- No, I'll just sneak into the room when he's sleeping, and looks at it.
What if he wakes up? Think that flew out the window a vampire.
"No," al shook his head, he'll just chase me. So already.
- You stand and look, nothing more?
"Yes," he nodded. Fit as close as possible to the Wake, and standing until dawn.
I expressed concern that someday he was arrested as a robber or even shoot.

The announcer read the news about the fire at the circus and, as usual, relished the juicy details.

- Now imagine, he said. - You're a fish living in the pond, and the pond dries up. Need to mutate into a amphibian, but someone pestering you and persuades you to stay in the pond, they say, all right.

We were on our way to a taxi on Fifty-seventh by Carnegie Hall, and next fell in a shiny black hearse. Instead of having to tell Barbara something, Phil leaned out of the window and shouted to the driver of the hearse:
- Completely dead?
He was in full dress, in a black suit, hat and all, but his face gave.
How do you know! he shouted in response and hit the gas.

On the wall hung a poster with a photo of his father and the inscription "Wanted". Near - masochistic whip. Phil lovingly put them side by side in a box. There was a reproduction, the books, records, easels and boxes full of stuff that he saves forever.

- Why don't we get married?
- Ever - is necessary.
- You're lying, you know that will never be solved.
- You'll see. Do you remember that letter I wrote from new Orleans?
- It was not serious, - she shrugged, - you just lust overpowered.
- Stupidity.

Even in our imperfect society there are people, continues Phil, which can serve as a prototype for future artistic citizens. The more you appear such artists, the sooner is realized the ideal world order.
- A first step towards the perfect society is the Atlantic Charter? - interrupts Barbara. - Something does not look like Roosevelt and Churchill on artists.
- About Roosevelt and Churchill's nothing I can say - Phil grimaces, most likely their task - to do the dirty work necessary for progress.

Everyone makes the circle of life, in the artistic sense, through art, and it is his personal creative contribution to the whole society.

Philip Tourian - seventeen year old boy, son of a Turk and an American. Can choose from several names but prefers to be called a Turian, although the father he Rogers. Black hair falling on his forehead, white skin, green eyes. The rest had not yet come in, and the boy had collapsed in the most comfortable chair, throwing one leg over the arm. Turian of those literary queers dedicate sonnets.

- I have it displayed out of position - he begins - that creativity is good and waste is evil. While you are doing good, and sin can only be an empty waste of their potential.

He said that after the Dennison they went to the Empire state building.
- Why is the Empire state building? - I was surprised.
- I think we were about to jump, he replied, - I do not remember.
Wow.