A Tale for the Time Being Read Online Free PDF

this far, you probably understand what I mean. Do you understand? Do you feel special yet?
    I’ll just wait here for a while to see if you answer . . .
    7.
    Just kidding. I know you can’t answer, and now I feel stupid, because what if you don’t feel special? I’m making an assumption, right? What if you just think
I’m a jerk and toss me into the garbage, like all those young girls I tell old Jiko about, who get killed by perverts and chopped up and thrown into dumpsters, just because they’ve made
the mistake of dating the wrong guy? That would be really sad and scary.
    Or, here’s another scary thought, what if you’re not reading this at all? What if you never even found this book, because somebody chucked it in the trash or recycled it before it
got to you? Then old Jiko’s stories truly will be lost forever, and I’m just sitting here wasting time talking to the inside of a dumpster.
    Hey, answer me! Am I stuck inside of a garbage can, or not?
    Just kidding. Again.
     
    Okay, here’s what I’ve decided. I don’t mind the risk, because the risk makes it more interesting. And I don’t think old Jiko will mind, either, because
being a Buddhist, she really understands impermanence and that everything changes and nothing lasts forever. Old Jiko really isn’t going to care if her life stories get written or lost, and
maybe I’ve picked up a little of that laissez-faire attitude from her. When the time comes, I can just let it all go.
    Or not. I don’t know. Maybe by the time I’ve written the last page, I’ll be too embarrassed or ashamed to leave it lying around, and I’ll wimp out and destroy it
instead.
    Hey, if you’re not reading this, you’ll know I’m a wimp! Ha-ha.
    And as for that business about old Marcel’s ghost being pissed off, I’ve decided not to worry about it. When I was googling Marcel Proust, I happened to look up his sales ranking on
Amazon, and I couldn’t believe it but his books are all still in print, and depending on which edition of
À la recherche du temps perdu
you’re talking about, his ranking
is somewhere between 13,695 and 79,324, which is no best seller, but it’s not so bad for a dead guy. Just so you know. You don’t have to feel too sorry for old Marcel.
    I don’t know how long this whole project is going to take me. Probably months. There are lots of blank pages, and Jiko’s got lots of stories, and I write pretty slow, but I’m
going to work really hard, and probably by the time I’m done filling in the last page, old Jiko will be dead, and it will be my time, too.
    And I know I can’t possibly write down every detail about Jiko’s life, so if you want to learn more, you’ll have to read her books, if you can find them. Like I said before,
her stuff is all out of print, and it’s possible that some crafty girl has already hacked her pages and tossed all her golden words into the recycling bin next to Proust’s. That would
be really sad, because it’s not like old Jiko has any ranking on Amazon at all. I know because I checked and she isn’t even there. Hmm. I’m going to have to rethink this hacking
concept. Maybe it’s not so cool after all.

Ruth
    1.
    The cat had climbed up onto Ruth’s desk and was preparing to make a strategic incursion onto her lap. She’d been reading the diary when he approached from the side,
placing his forepaws on her knees and nudging his nose underneath the spine of the book, pushing it up and out of his way. Once that was done, he settled himself on her lap and started kneading,
butting his head into her hand. He was so annoying. Always looking for attention.
    She closed the diary and placed it on the desk as she stroked the cat’s forehead, but even after putting the book aside, she was aware of an odd and lingering sense of urgency to . . .
what? To help the girl? To save her? Ridiculous.
    Her first impulse when she’d started the diary was to read quickly to the end, but the girl’s handwriting