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by Richard Brautigan
"These are just fragments," Bob said, almost a year later to Constance lying bound and gagged on a bed without any clothes on, her head resting in his lap.
"Lines," he said. "Parts of lines..." He paused and then forgot for a moment what he was talking about.
Constance waited for him to remember what he was talking about. He was turning the pages of the book but he didn't know why. They turned like leaves in an absent-minded wind.
Then he remembered what he was doing and started over again, repeating the very same words that he had just used. "These are just fragments. Lines," he said. "Parts of the lines and sometimes only single words that remain from the original poems written by the Greeks thousands of years ago."
"'More beautiful,'" Bob said. "That's all that's left of a poem."
"'Having fled,'" Bob said. "That's all that's left of another one."
"'He cheats you,'" Bob said. "'Breaking.' 'You have made me forget all my sorrows.' There are three more."
"Here are two really beautiful ones," Bob said. "'Deeply do I mourn, for my friends are nothing worth.' 'Take bites of the cucumbers.'"
"What do you think? Do you like them?" Bob said. He had forgotten that she could not answer him. She nodded her head yes that she liked them.
"Would you like to hear some more?" Bob said.
He had forgotten that there was a gag in her mouth.
She slowly nodded yes.
"Here are four more fragments," Bob said. "They are all that remain of a man's voice from thousands of years ago: 'Storms.' 'Of these.' 'I was.' 'He understood.' Incredible, huh?"
She very slowly nodded yes.
"One more?" Bob asked.
She slowly nodded yes.
"'And nothing will come of anything,'" Bob said.
Richard Brautigan
Willard and His Bowling Trophies
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