- "The author must keep his mouth shut when his work starts to speak."
- -- Frederich Nietzsche
And so, here we are, Eleanor's Biographer says. (Or thinks. He isn't sure if words have actually been spoken. Thoughts are noisy tonight.)
First, I will tell you what it was like, growing up inside your head, Eleanor responds, out loud or in a thought. In any case, the air has been punctured and begins to leak.
Then, she says, after that, she says, I want you to change certain incidents -- some details.
The air is making its own sounds, at first like a balloon slowly bleeding, and then like a train traveling leisurely down the tracks.
The Moleskine notebook is out, the pen at the ready, and the hand steadied by a shot (or two) of Evan Williams whiskey.
Make that three shots of Evan Williams, as Eleanor keeps counting her fingers, from one to five, and then five to one -- just one hand counting the fingers on the other hand, back and forth like this, as the darkness becomes like a heavy wool blanket and the punctured air -- well, it begins to smell of oranges. The sweet, juice oranges -- the kind with lots of pulp. (Not the ones you buy at the grocery story, big and pretty but hollow. These are the small, ugly oranges with spots on their skin to discourage you; yet inside is a tall glass of nectar. This is the good sticky stuff with all of the vitamins -- to help you remember, Eleanor says, somewhat abruptly, what you most likely have forgotten.)