e c l e c t i c a n o n f i c t i o n
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I've come to understand that wanting something is having as much of it as you'll ever have.
In the middle of the night, journeying through a light, agitated sleep, I awake. Squeakings. Rattlings of chains. Fortunato lives yet! Shivering in pajama tops, my feet cold in cold slippers, sans eyeglasses, I steal back to the kitchen, turn on the light. The rattling comes, desperate now, from behind the stove. Has he returned to get at the cereal for a last supper? What is the pain-crazed creature thinking of! I search for a pair of pliers. The 20th century is pitiless: I can't risk touching him, for the lice on mice may be as fatal to me as I shall be to him.