the sloppy editing. "Riddled with typos," they said.
Did everything have an ending?
Poetry could end on emptiness, a disregard for proper punctuation being somewhat de rigueur among the poetry set. But prose?
Biography? Her father's biography, uneventful till the very end—had it ended on the raised eyebrows of an exclamation point? The curlicue of a question left unanswered? The final summation of a period, or the stutter-marks of an ellipsis trailing off into blank paper...
Laura prepared indexes as well and was currently juggling several biographies, all public figures, all women—an athlete, a soldier
(posthumous), a country singing star. Highlighting surnames and proper nouns, tallying Key Events and Honours, Earned. It was for a series titled Lives Lived. Indexes were tricky things. What mattered? Surnames, certainly. And cities. Specific locations (New York), but not general (kitchen). Do you group the subject's early jobs in advertising and marketing together? Or under subheadings labelled "Employment, Early"? Do you need a separate entry for
"Advertising"? Or could you get away with using an artful " see:
Marketing"? (Answer: No.)
It was not a particularly enjoyable task, indexing other people's lives. "Seems to me," she'd said with a sigh to her father on the phone one day, "that the most important aspects of someone's life are the very things not listed in an index." There were never entries for "memory," or "regrets," or even "love," in the lowercase.
It was always "Education (post-secondary)" or "Awards (see also:
Best Debut R&B Country CD by a Female Artist, Solo)." Indexes never seemed to get to the heart of the matter. There was never a heading for hope or fear. Or dreams, recalled. Smiles, remembered. Anger. Beauty. Or even images that lingered, glimpses of something that had made an impression. A doorway. A window. A reflection on glass. The smell of rain. Never any of that. Just a tally of proper nouns and famous names. And why only one life? Why not the web of other lives that define us? What of their indexes, their moments?
"I think," said her father, "you need to cut back on the espresso and try to get some rest."
She'd laughed and agreed, had taken the elevator down to the pool, had swum laps. Had swum until her eyes stung.
And now, here she was, still at her desk, still indexing other people's lives.
"You, I love."
Why would he say that?
CHAPTER 16
A standard, paint-by-numbers biography begins with the subject's grandparents arriving from England/Ireland/Germany/Soviet Russia, then traces their humble beginnings as shopkeepers/farmers/miners, never imagining (that's what forebears do, they go about their lives never imagining) that one day, their grandson/daughter/son would grow up to become a world-famous/acclaimed/notorious athlete/entertainer/politician/merchant of death.
With celebrity memoirs, this would be more self-aggrandizing, of course, and would usually start with a defining public moment.
"As I sat in the audience, while [MAIN RIVAL'S] name was called to receive the award for Best Debut R&B Country CD by a Female Artist (Solo), I fought back tears, knowing that if I wanted to grow as an individual, I would have to reinvent myself as an artist/woman/merchant of death." But after that, they too would settle into a straightforward chronology. This happened, then this.
The human memory is a salamander, though; it squiggles from point to point, slaloms its way improbably up walls and across ceilings. A ripple of colour, appearing and disappearing at the same moment, an orange head trailing a fluid blue body. Had she dreamed that? It seemed more memory than dream.
No story based on human memory was ever linear. Memories folded back on themselves. They clustered, they clotted. They arranged themselves not chronologically, but clumped together thematically. Betrayal. Ambition. Regret.
Did everything have an ending?
Poetry could end on emptiness, a disregard for proper punctuation being somewhat de rigueur among the poetry set. But prose?
Biography? Her father's biography, uneventful till the very end—had it ended on the raised eyebrows of an exclamation point? The curlicue of a question left unanswered? The final summation of a period, or the stutter-marks of an ellipsis trailing off into blank paper...
Laura prepared indexes as well and was currently juggling several biographies, all public figures, all women—an athlete, a soldier
(posthumous), a country singing star. Highlighting surnames and proper nouns, tallying Key Events and Honours, Earned. It was for a series titled Lives Lived. Indexes were tricky things. What mattered? Surnames, certainly. And cities. Specific locations (New York), but not general (kitchen). Do you group the subject's early jobs in advertising and marketing together? Or under subheadings labelled "Employment, Early"? Do you need a separate entry for
"Advertising"? Or could you get away with using an artful " see:
Marketing"? (Answer: No.)
It was not a particularly enjoyable task, indexing other people's lives. "Seems to me," she'd said with a sigh to her father on the phone one day, "that the most important aspects of someone's life are the very things not listed in an index." There were never entries for "memory," or "regrets," or even "love," in the lowercase.
It was always "Education (post-secondary)" or "Awards (see also:
Best Debut R&B Country CD by a Female Artist, Solo)." Indexes never seemed to get to the heart of the matter. There was never a heading for hope or fear. Or dreams, recalled. Smiles, remembered. Anger. Beauty. Or even images that lingered, glimpses of something that had made an impression. A doorway. A window. A reflection on glass. The smell of rain. Never any of that. Just a tally of proper nouns and famous names. And why only one life? Why not the web of other lives that define us? What of their indexes, their moments?
"I think," said her father, "you need to cut back on the espresso and try to get some rest."
She'd laughed and agreed, had taken the elevator down to the pool, had swum laps. Had swum until her eyes stung.
And now, here she was, still at her desk, still indexing other people's lives.
"You, I love."
Why would he say that?
CHAPTER 16
A standard, paint-by-numbers biography begins with the subject's grandparents arriving from England/Ireland/Germany/Soviet Russia, then traces their humble beginnings as shopkeepers/farmers/miners, never imagining (that's what forebears do, they go about their lives never imagining) that one day, their grandson/daughter/son would grow up to become a world-famous/acclaimed/notorious athlete/entertainer/politician/merchant of death.
With celebrity memoirs, this would be more self-aggrandizing, of course, and would usually start with a defining public moment.
"As I sat in the audience, while [MAIN RIVAL'S] name was called to receive the award for Best Debut R&B Country CD by a Female Artist (Solo), I fought back tears, knowing that if I wanted to grow as an individual, I would have to reinvent myself as an artist/woman/merchant of death." But after that, they too would settle into a straightforward chronology. This happened, then this.
The human memory is a salamander, though; it squiggles from point to point, slaloms its way improbably up walls and across ceilings. A ripple of colour, appearing and disappearing at the same moment, an orange head trailing a fluid blue body. Had she dreamed that? It seemed more memory than dream.
No story based on human memory was ever linear. Memories folded back on themselves. They clustered, they clotted. They arranged themselves not chronologically, but clumped together thematically. Betrayal. Ambition. Regret.
Similar Books
Dispatch
Bentley Little
The Wheel of Darkness
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2)
Joseph Turkot
TLV - 02 - The Road of the Sea Horse
Poul Anderson
The Song of Hartgrove Hall
Natasha Solomons
Palafox
Eric Chevillard
Passions in the North Country (Siren Publishing Classic)
Summer Newman
The Life She Left Behind
Maisey Yates