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Might one approach a doctor and ask for it? A simple enough operation, surely:
they do it to animals every day, and animals survive well enough, if one ignores
a certain residue of sadness. Severing, tying off: with local anaesthetic and a
steady hand and a modicum of phlegm one might even do it oneself, out of a
textbook. A man on a chair snipping away at himself: an ugly sight, but no more
ugly, from a certain point of view, than the same man exercising himself on the
body of a woman.
There is still Soraya. He ought to close that chapter. Instead, he pays a
detective agency to track her down. Within days he has her real name, her
address, her telephone number. He telephones at nine in the morning, when the
husband and children will be out. 'Soraya?' he says. 'This is David. How are
you? When can I see you again?'
A long silence before she speaks. 'I don't know who you are,' she says. 'You are
harassing me in my own house. I demand you will never phone me here again,
never.'
Demand. She means command. Her shrillness surprises him: there has been no
intimation of it before. But then, what should a predator expect when he
intrudes into the vixen's nest, into the home of her cubs?
He puts down the telephone. A shadow of envy passes over him for the husband he
has never seen.
From "Disgrace" by J.M. Coetzee. (c) November, 1999, used by permission of the publisher, Penguin Group.
A few books well chosen, and well made use of, will be more profitable than a great confused Alexandrian library.
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