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He was enough of a lover of forms to understand the allure of such a strict life, how much internal wildness it could release.
MAKE ME HAPPY, Frankenstein’s monster pleaded with its maker, and I shall again be virtuous.
It occurred to her then that life was conical in shape, the past broadening beyond the sharp point of the lived moment. The more life you had, the more the base expanded, so that the wounds and treasons that were nearly imperceptible when they happened stretched like tiny dots on a balloon slowly blown up. A speck on the slender child grows into a gross deformity in the adult, inescapable, ragged at the edges.
