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But if Miss Golightly remained unconscious of my existence, except as a doorbell convenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. I discovered, from observing the trash-basket outside her door, that her regular reading consisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that she smoked an esoteric cigarette called Picayunes; survived on cottage cheese and Melba Toast; that her vari-colored hair was somewhat self-induced. The same source made it evident that she received V-letters by the bale. They were torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love. ↗
Maybe it begins the day you pledge allegiance, face the flag and suddenly clutch your left clavicle because you find a tender puff of breast where yesterday your heart was Or maybe it happens later when you're walking home from school and they rush you on the street-- those boys who reach out fast, disgrace your blouse with rubs of dirt, their laughter stinging hot against your face. And you bite your rage, swallow your tears because the fact is, your territory's up for grabs and somehow it's your own damned fault. And one day you stand at your mirror armed with jars and razor blades against the scents and grasses of your shameless bleeding body, and you see what you've become--a freak manufactured to disguise the real one, the one who sometimes still recalls your innocence, the time before you became a dirty joke. And maybe it begins to end the day you try against the odds to love yourself again. Even though you know the worst thing you can call someone is cunt, you try to love the flesh and fur you are, that convoluted, prehistoric flower, petals dripping weeds and echoing vaguely fragrant odors of the sea. ↗
Lo sguardo delle donne assomiglia a certi congegni tranquilli in apparenza ma formidabili. Vi si passa vicino tutti i giorni pacificamente e impunemente, senza dubitare di nulla. Viene il momento in cui ci si dimentica anche che quella cosa è là. Si va, si viene, si sogna, si parla, si ride. A un tratto ci si sente presi! E' finita. Il congegno vi ha preso, lo sguardo vi ha catturato. Vi ha preso, non importa dove, né come, per una parte qualsiasi del vostro pensiero, per una distrazione. Un concatenamento di forze misteriose si impadronisce di voi. Vi dibattete invano. Non ci sono più soccorsi umani possibili. Cadete di ingranaggio in ingranaggio, di angoscia in angoscia, di tortura in tortura, voi, il vostro spirito, le vostre fortune, il vostro avvenire, l'anima vostra; e, a seconda che siate in potere di una creatura cattiva o di un nobile cuore, non uscirete da quella spaventosa macchina che sfigurato dalla vergogna o trasfigurato dalla passione. ↗
His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him. “Tu sei pazzo,” she told him with a pleasant laugh. “Why am I crazy?” he asked. “Perché non posso sposare.” “Why can’t you get married?” “Because I am not a virgin,” she answered. “What has that got to do with it?” “Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.” “I will. I’ll marry you.” “Ma non posso sposarti.” “Why can’t you marry me?” “Perché sei pazzo.” “Why am I crazy?” “Perché vuoi sposarmi.” Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. “You won’t marry me because I’m crazy, and you say I’m crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?” “Si.” “Tu sei pazz’!” he told her loudly. “Perché?” she shouted back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a saucy huff beneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. “Why am I crazy?” “Because you won’t marry me.” “Stupido!” she shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with the back of her hand. “Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.” “Oh, sure, I understand. And why can’t you marry me?” “Perché sei pazzo!” “And why am I crazy?” “Perché vuoi sposarmi.” “Because I want to marry you. Carina, ti amo,” he explained, and he drew her gently back down to the pillow. “Ti amo molto.” “Tu sei pazzo,” she murmured in reply, flattered. “Perché?” “Because you say you love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?” “Because I can’t marry you.” She bolted right up again in a threatening rage. “Why can’t you marry me?” she demanded, ready to clout him again if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. “Just because I am not a virgin?” “No, no, darling. Because you’re crazy. ↗
When we first got married, we made a pact. It was this: In our life together, it was decided I would make all of the big decisions and my wife would make all of the little decisions. For fifty years, we have held true to that agreement. I believe that is the reason for the success in our marriage. However, the strange thing is that in fifty years, there hasn’t been one big decision. ↗
It was this feminine conspiracy which made Southern society so pleasant. Women knew that a land where men were contented, uncontradicted ans safe in possession of unpunctured vanity was likely to be a very pleasant place for women to live. So, from the cradle to the grave, women strove to make men pleased with themselves, and the satisfied men repaid lavishly with gallantry and adoration. In fact, men willingly gave ladies everything in the world except credit for having intelligence. ↗
