"Pynchon keeps bleating about the preterit, right?" Cecil, who began
licking his paw and washing his face, did not respond. "-- and the
elect who are out to destroy them, but he's the only one I see who's
treating his characters badly. I mean, how can you go off on God for
malpractice when you treat your characters like you treat cockroaches?"
Cecil looked at her for a moment, and resumed washing.
"OK, listen to this: 'Nobody ever said a day has to be juggled into any
kind of sense at day's end.' OK, I can see that. But I don't throw
you against the wall and call the universe evil, do I?" Cecil snorted
a tiny snort through his nostrils.
"But as far as making trying to make sense of everything... I can see
that. That's why I wonder sometimes. Like about Uncle Justin," she
continued, as Cecil stood, arched his back, and attempted to find a
comfortable position on her stomach, "who was a science teacher for
twenty-two years, who gave up everything, because... you know..."
Julia shook her head and returned the book to its level reading
elevation.
As a matter of interest, Cecil did not know, but was content enough to
curl up again, feeling Julia's hand press against his fur, causing his
throat to vibrate with greater volume.
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