The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty Read Online Free PDF

off.”
    “It was a fragile, delicate piece. Very refined and elegant.”
    He looks down at the two pieces of mug in his hand. “You grew up in a house filled with refinement and delicacy. This mug is a big clunky chunk of mud, the farthest thing from elegant.”
    “Absolutely, according to your narrow-minded and unsophisticated definition of elegance.”
    Looking irritated, he puts the pieces back on the shelf and reaches for another item—a bowl. It breaks in two as soon as he’s touched it.
    He looks at Penelope. “This bowl was broken,” he says.
    He picks up a plate, but only half of it goes with him. “What’s going on? All these items are broken,” he says.
    “I can see that. It’s a shame you broke them,” she says.
    “Stop it.”
    Penelope blushes fiercely.
    “Stop the bullshit. I want an explanation,” he says.
    In a voice that sounds so strangled I myself can barely breathe, Penelope says, “Customers have to pay for what they break.”
    A chuckle escapes me. She has gall. She may not be a creative genius like Lily or Georgia, but nature was a genius in making her.
    After a moment’s reflection, her father’s eyes open wide. “ That’s how you’ve been selling your merchandise? You make people believe they broke a piece of crap, and you make them pay for it?”
    “I was kidnapped ,” Penelope says.
    “Ah, here we go again.”
    “I was kept in a coffin for three days.”
    “SO ?” he screams. “Why do you always bring that up to defend your inadequacies?”
    “Please don’t be so harsh,” Penelope’s mother finally says.
    His tone softens. “Don’t you feel ashamed to do business this way?”
    “It’s a selling technique,” Penelope says.
    Feeling sorry for her, I jump in. “Positioning the broken pieces in such a way as to make them appear unbroken requires great skill. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the long run, the art of the deception becomes the true art of the piece.” I reach for an ugly mug that looks in perfect condition. The moment I raise it from the shelf, a piece of the rim falls inside the mug. “Wow,” I gasp. “It looked so undamaged. Your technique is remarkable, Penelope. Achieving this effect of false wholeness, this illusion of integrity, must take a lot of work. It’s a tough balancing act.”
    “Yes,” she says.
    Her father is not satisfied. “But don’t customers object to paying for something they didn’t break? How did you manage to get so many people to pay for the pieces?”
    “I cry,” Penelope says.
    “You cry to sell your broken merchandise?” her father screams.
    “Yes, it helps! And I’m thinking of branching out and selling glassware, too.”
    “I’m embarrassed by you.”
    “I was kidnapped!” she exclaims again. “And don’t pretend you don’t see how that could possibly affect the rest of my life. I was kept in a coffin for three days and three nights. No food. No water. No physical movement. Hardly any air to breathe. No toilet. I should be dead right now.” She gives her father a searing look.
    Her father turns to me. “You seem well balanced. Do you have a good therapist you could recommend?”
    I stammer, “I have one . . . since yesterday . . . uh, I don’t know how good she is.”
    Penelope says, “I didn’t go to a therapist when I came out of the coffin—I don’t see why I should go to one now.”
    Her father takes her by the shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. “You’re the one who keeps using the coffin excuse to defend every poor choice you make and to justify your lack of . . . achievements—which I don’t say is invalid, but it tells me you might want to deal with your coffin issue. Face it, you never really got out of that coffin. Let a therapist free you.”
    Seeing no reaction from her and unwilling to wait more than two seconds for one, he adds, “And anyway, if you don’t start contributing to your living in a legitimate way very soon, I’m going to stop supporting you.