'Her Gart went round in circles. "I am Her," she said
to herself; she repeated, "Her, Her, Her." Her Gart
tried to hold on to something; drowning she grasped, she caught
at a smooth surface, her fingers slipped, she cried in her dementia,
"I am Her, Her, Her." Her Gart had no word for her
dementia, it was predictable by star, by star-sign, by year.
But Her Gart was then no prophet. She could not predict later
common usage of uncommon syllogisms; "failure complex,"
"compensation reflex," and that conniving phrase "arrested
development" had opened no door to her. Her development,
forced along slippery lines of exact definition, marked supernorm,
marked subnorm on some sort of chart or soul-barometer. She
could not distinguish the supernorm, dragging her up from the
subnorm, letting her down. She could not see the way out of
marsh and bog. She said, "I am Hermione Gart precisely."
She said, "I am Hermione Gart," but Her Gart was not
that. She was nebulous, gazing into branches of liriodendron,
into network of oak and deflowered dogwood. She looked up into
larch that was now dark, its moss-flame already one colour with
the deciduous oak leaves. The green that, each spring, renewed
her sort of ecstasy ...'
'That odd infallible
sliding-like-crystal air on water that means day's left dawn
and I should like, now that white lilac has etherealized my senses,
to do something."
no valiant effort could hold her to her vast desire."
incandescent and it doesn't seem fair."