I am the horse that got away from Vonnegut. I am the open passage between the house and Stein’s salon. Hemingway’s cat watched me in my crib. I am none of those things and none of those things happened to me. It is pretentious to imagine oneself to be involved with any of those things. There is an increased chance of being hit by lightning if caught on the open pampas during a storm. The boy was determined not to continue his father’s teaching, but when his sister fell down he yelled at her, or would have, had the others not intervened. I’m trapped in a coffee shop sitting next to a person who is constantly belching. “Your behaviour should be aristocratic even when alone.” In the mirror I saw my own face, though it belonged to a woman, rapidly aging.
I don’t advise going back too far.