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And he would go to picture galleries they said and he would ask one, did one like his tie? God knows, said Rose, one did not.

To the Lighthouse

In the house on Paper Street, a police detective started calling about my condominium explosion, and Tyler stood with his chest against my shoulder, whispering into my ear while I held the phone to the other ear, and the detective asked if I knew anyone who could make dynamite.
"Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Tyler whispered, "toward tragedy and dissolution."
I told the detective that it was the refridgerator that blew up my condo.
"I'm breaking my attachment to physical power and possessions," Tyler whispered, "because only through destroying myself can I discover the greatest power of my spirit."
The dynamite, the detective said, there were impurities, a residue of ammonium oxalate and potassium perchloride that might mean the bomb was homemade, and the dead bolt on the front door was shattered.
I said I was in Washington, D.C., that night.
The detective on the phone explained how someone had sprayed a cinister of Freon into the dead-bolt lock and then tapped the lock with a cold chisel to shatter the cylinder. This is the way criminals are stealing bicycles.
"The liberator who destroys my property," Tyler said, "is fighting to save my spirit. The teacher who clears all possessions from my path will set me free."
The detective said whoever set the homemade dynamite could've turned on the gas and blown out the pilot lights on the stove days before the explosion took place. The gas was just the trigger. It would take days for the gas to fill the condo before it reached the compressor at the base of the refridgerator and the compressor's electronic motor set of the explosion.
"Tell him," Tyler whispered. "Yes, you did it. You blew it all up. That's what he wants to hear."

"Ford" he said "there's an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out."

"And who who looks at another woman so that he desires her will deny his Faith and shall not have the Spirit; and if he does not repent, he shall be cast out."

It was not that Fuchsia did not struggle against her mounting melancholia. But the black moods closing in on her ever more frequently were becoming too much for her.
The emotional, loving, moody child had had small chance of developing into a happy woman. Had she as a girl been naturally joyous yet all that had befallen her must surely have driven away the bright birds, one by one, from her breast. As it was, made of a more sombre clay, capable of a deeper happiness, but more easily drawn to the dark than the light, Fuchsia was even more open to the cruel winds of circumstance which seemed to have singled her out for particular punishment.
Her need for love had never been fulfilled; her love for others had never been suspected, or wanted. Rich as a dusky orchard, she had never been discovered. Her green boughs had been spread, but no travellers came and rested in their shade nor tasted the sweet fruit.
With her mind for ever turning to the past, Fuchsia could see nothing but the ill-starred progress of a girl who was, in spite of her title and all it implied of little consequence in the eyes of the castle, a purposeless misfit of a child, hapless and solitary. Her deepest loves had been for her old nurse Nannie Slagg, for her brother, for the doctor and in a strange way for Flay. Nannie Slagg and Flay were both dead; Titus had changed. They loved one another still but a wall of cloud lay between them, something neither had the power to dispel.
There was still Dr Prune. But he had been so heavily overworked since the flood that she had not seen him. The desire to see the last of her true friends had weakened with every black depression. When she most needed the counsel and love of the doctor, who would have left the world bleeding to help her, it was then that she froze within herself and locking herself away, became ill with the failure of her life, the frustration of her womanhood, and tossing and turning in her improvised bedroom twelve feet above the flood, conceived for the first time, the idea of suicide.
What was the darkest of causes for so terrible a thought it is hard to know. Her lack of love; her lack of a father or a real mother? Her loneliness. The ghastly disillusion when steerpike was unmasked, and the horror of her having been fondled by a homicide. The growing sense of her own inferiority. In everything but rank. There were many causes, any of which might have been alone sufficient to undermine the will of tougher natures than Fuchsia’s.
When the first concept of oblivion flickered through her mind, she raised her head from her arms. She was shocked and she was frightened. But she was excited also.
She walked unsteadily to the window. Her thought had taken her into a realm of possibility so vast,  awe-inspiring, final and noiseless that her knees went weak and she glanced over her shoulder although she knew herself to be alone with her door locked against the world.
When she reached the window she stared out across the water, but nothing that she saw affected her thought or made any kind of visual impression on her.
All she knew was that she felt weak, that she was not reading about all this in a tragic book but that it was true. It was true that she was standing at a window and she had thought of killing herself. She clutched her hands together over her heart and a fleeting memory of how a young man had appeared at another window many years ago and had left a rose behind him on her table, passed through her mind and was gone.
It was all true. It wasn’t any story. But she could still pretend. She would pretend that she was the kind of person that would not only think of killing herself so that the pain in her heart would be gone forever, but the kind of person who would know how to do it, and be brave enough.
And as she pondered, she slid moment be moment even deeper into a world of make-believe, as though she were once more the imaginative girl of many years ago, aloft in her secret life. She had become somebody else. She was someone who was young and beautiful and brave as a lioness. What would such a person do? Why, such a person would stand upon this windowsill above this water. And … she … would … and as the child in her was playing the oldest game in the world, her body, following the course of her imagination, had climbed of the sill of the window where it stood with its back to the room.
For how long she would have stood there had she not been jerked back into a sudden consciousness of the world – by the sound of someone knocking upon her room, it is impossible to know, but starting at the sound and finding herself dangerously balanced upon a narrow sill above the deep water she trembled uncontrollably, and in trying to turn without sufficient thought or care, she slipped and clutching at the face of the wall at her side found nothing to grasp, so that she fell striking her dark head on the sill as she passed, and was already unconscious before the water received her, and drowned her at its ease.

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promotory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this mighty o'rehanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire; why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in aprehension, how like a God! The beauty of the world, paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dusk. Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.

-Hamlet