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in the Great War. That was a war all right. Oh I
     know there have been other wars since, better-publicized ones, more expensive ones
     perhaps, but our war is the one I’ll always remember. Our war is the one that means war to me.” “Mother I know Hogo is thirty-five and thoroughly bad through and through
     but still there is something drawing me to him. To his house. To the uninnocence I
     know awaits me there.” “Simmer down child. There is a method in my meanness. By refusing
     to allow you to go to Hogo’s house, I will draw Hogo here, to your house,where we can smother him in blueberry flan and other kindnesses, and generally work on him, and beat the life out of him, in
     one way or another.” “That’s shrewd mother.”
    THE poem remained between us like an immense, wrecked railroad car. “Touching the
     poem,” we said, “is it rhymed or free?” “Free,” Snow White said, “free, free, free.”
     “And the theme?” “One of the great themes,” she said, “that is all I can reveal at
     this time.” “Could you tell us the first word?” “The first word,” she said, “is ‘bandaged
     and wounded.’” “But . . .” “Run together,” she said. We mentally reviewed the great
     themes in the light of the word or words, “bandaged and wounded.” “How is it that
     bandage precedes wound?” “A metaphor of the self armoring itself against the gaze
     of The Other.” “The theme is loss, we take it.” “What,” she said, “else?” “Are you
     specific as to what is lost?” “Brutally.” “Snow White,” we said, “why do you remain
     with us? here? in this house?” There was a silence. Then she said: “It must be laid,
     I suppose, to a failure of the imagination. I have not been able to imagine anything
     better.” I have not been able to imagine anything better . We were pleased by this powerful statement of our essential mutuality, which can
     never be sundered or torn, or broken apart, dissipated, diluted, corrupted or finally
     severed, not even by art in its manifold and dreadful guises. “But my imagination
     is stirring,” Snow White said. “Like the long-sleeping stock certificate suddenly
     alive in its green safety-depositbox because of new investor interest, my imagination is stirring. Be warned.” Something
     was certainly wrong, we felt.

THE HORSEWIFE IN HISTORY
    FAMOUS HORSEWIVES
    THE HORSEWIFE: A SPIRITUAL PORTRAIT
    THE HORSEWIFE: A CRITICAL STUDY
    FIRST MOP, 4000 BC
    VIEWS OF ST. AUGUSTINE
    VIEWS OF THE VENERABLE BEDE
    EMERSON ON THE AMERICAN HORSEWIFE
    OXFORD COMPANION TO THE AMERICAN HORSEWIFE
    INTRODUCTION OF BON AMI, 1892
    HORSEWIVES ON HORSEWIFERY
    ACCEPT ROLE, PSYCHOLOGIST URGES
    THE PLASTIC BAG
    THE GARLIC PRESS

BILL has developed a shamble. The consequence, some say, of a lost mind. But that
     is not true. In the midst of so much that is true, it is refreshing to shamble across
     something that is not true. He does not want to be touched. But he is entitled to
     an idiosyncrasy. He has earned it by his vigorous leadership in that great enterprise,
     his life. And in that other great enterprise, our love for Snow White. “This thing
     is damaging to all of us,” Bill noted. “We were all born in National Parks. Clem has
     his memories of Yosemite, inspiring gorges. Kevin remembers the Great Smokies. Henry
     has his Acadian songs and dances, Dan his burns from Hot Springs. Hubert has climbed
     the giant Sequoias, and Edward has climbed stately Rainier. And I, I know the Everglades,
     which everybody knows. These common experiences have yoked us together forever under
     the red, white and blue.” Then we summoned up all our human understanding, from those
     regions where it customarily dwelt. “Love has died here, apparently,” Bill said significantly,
     “and it is our task to infuse it once again with the hot orange breath of life. With
     that in mind I have asked Hogo de Bergerac to come over and advise us on what should
     be done.