Read My Body in Nine Parts for Free Online

enough that I don’t have to struggle with them, except for the nail of the big toe of my right foot, which I will discuss in a moment.
    There is something unnatural about that fourth toe. He’s insensitive. Always Crabby. Revêche , is the best way I can put it. I have to fight with him when I do his nail. And the nail itself is like an impregnable fortress because it is so hard. I would say that this toe with its surly nail is an anarchist. He’s constantly in revolt.
    As for the big toe, well that’s another story. That one is tough. Tough and arrogant. He’s a loner. He thinks he is superior just because he is bigger than the others. Not because he’s more beautiful, or has a better shape, on the contrary, he’s ugly like hell, deformed and puffy. Bigness is his thing. So, he bitches all the time when I cut his nail, which always grows longer than the other nails. That big toe irritates me. He mocks me. He curses me, uses obscene language, when I hold him tight with two fingers to clip his ugly nail. That big toe has a nail as ugly as the toe. Impossible to describe the ugliness of that nail. It has no definite shape or texture. The only thing one can say about it is that it has an obnoxious color, yellowish like a rotten egg. Last night, as I was approaching that big toe with my favorite nail-clippers, he said to me, in a very sneering argumentative tone of voice, Federman why the fuck don’t you buy yourself a better Bistoquet? The piece of shit you’re using hurts me .
    That’s exactly what he said. And he used the French word, Bistoquet .
    By the way, all my toes are bilingual, like me.
    I know you’re going to tell me, Federman, this time you exaggerate. You’re making this up. Toes don’t talk.
    No, I’m not inventing. That’s exactly what my left big toe said. My toes talk to me. And I understand that is true of all human toes, they talk, they tell you when they hurt, or when they are feeling good, or when they’re just fed up with everything, but most people don’t listen to their toes. In any case, that’s what my big toe said. And he used the French word Bistoquet .
    Bistoquet? I didn’t even know that word. I had to look it up in my French/English dictionary, and this is what it said, Bistoquet: Wire nail cutting machine . I have no idea what that means, what kind of wire machine that is, and I have no idea how my big toe learned such a rare fancy word, but that shows you how learned he is, and such a snob too.
    Alright, let’s say that I am paraphrasing a little here, but that’s the way my big left toe talks to me. And yet, when I cut his nail, I know it gives him pleasure. I can tell. I know he appreciates that I am making him more handsome. That toe is so conceited. So self-centered.
    So, that’s the story of the toes and toe-nails of my left foot.
    Would you like to hear the story of the toes of my right foot? It’ll only take a few minutes.
    These five toes are totally different. A totally different clique of toes. They are not as comfortable with each other as the toes of my left foot.
    The toes of my left foot have compassion for one another. They suffer collectively. They’re like a family. On the opposite side, my toes are like a gathering of foreigners in exile. They never talk to each other. Never do anything together. They always hurt. They seem unhappy to be my toes. I think they would like to be elsewhere. They feel out of place.
    I don’t know if this has to do with the fact that I was born left-handed, and became right-handed when I broke my left arm at the age of eight, but these toes feel alien to me.
    They claim I don’t pay as much attention to them as I do the toes of my left foot. Except the third one, with whom I have a very good relation. An artistic relation. You’ll see why in a moment.
    As I told you, I always begin with the left foot when cutting my toe-nails. It’s a