i asked him what the problem was and he said:
i have been reading. i have been reading the most dismal accounts of vacations in sunny places. also i have this feeling, unaccountably, that there are people i do not know who wrote these accounts and who i will never be able to like. i do not know about their hats, their parents, or their moral habits, and yet i am sure i will not like them. i do not like them now.
the priest came in and showed us the relics: sixteen toes of saint glossolalia,, nineteen arms of saint anapestus, saint poblermane's twelve white breasts, three precious foreskins from the baby jesus, nine whole and complete bodies of saint wally (though his corpse had been cremated), and one petrified tonsil of mary the mother of god—the only piece left when her body ascended to heaven. he told us that relic-seekers were an especially interesting breed.
and he said: i have perished as a gadabout
i am no longer who i thought i was or would be but i am my own puzzle. everything i say is a surprise to me and an albatross. i have no wingspan nevertheless. the best things i say are flown in an instant and the worst tag behind me. i drag them everywhere.
he said he was sorry. that there was no news.
that he would not be good company today.