“He’s very close to being the shade of the walls, isn’t he, and the shade of the walls is exactly the color of the inside of Rothko’s forearm. That’s the color he always wanted as the backdrop for his paintings, you know. Pale ivory with a slight, yellowish cast, the color of Cellutex.” She pursed her lips. “It was the crook of the arm where he slashed himself, severing the brachial artery on February twenty-fourth, 1970.”
She set Clem down and stroked the tip of his ear. “Well,” she said, “we all have our February twenty-fourth. Even this one.” She turned her eyes toward the luminous painting on the wall. “I’ve always thought it was criminal the way Rothko painted pictures. Each time he made a picture, he committed a crime against the belief in the unquenchability of the human spirit.” She stared at the painting and sucked in her stomach. Liberty stared at the painting. Willie stared. Liberty felt that they were all on the verge of gulping for air in its presence.
“You’ve come here to make me happy,” the woman said, turning to them, smiling.
“Excuse me?” Liberty said.
“You’ve come here to make me happy,” she said.
Joy Williams, Breaking and Entering
If you’ve never heard Conner Habib’s appearance on Weird Studies discussing Williams’s excellent, beguiling novel, do yourself a favor.
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