Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

form are as ineffective as his attempts to destroy the art offilm are successful). Of course, a true naming of things isimpossible. Our minds are too feeble and our sensoryequipment is too mysterious and complex for us ever to domore than make approximate definitions. Yet we mustcontinue to make the effort, no matter how inadequate theresult. In fact, I have made it a rule that whatever Iconsciously experience, I promptly submit to analysis. TakeMary-Ann Pringle. I was in my office, just after lunch, lookingover my notes for tomorrow's class in Empathy, when therewas a timid knock at the door (despite my vow never tomake anthropomorphic references in referring to thingsthere was no doubt in my mind, even as I heard that knock,that it was the result of a fist striking wood directed by afrightened i. e. timid intelligence). Mary-Ann entered,wearing miniskirt (bright yellow) and sweater (dark green)and no bra. She is innocent, attractive, young. Her handsare those of a child, rather grubby with broken nails butmarvelously smooth, like seamless gloves. "Miss Myra, Iwanted to know could I talk to you just a minute. I'm notdisturbing you, am I, Miss Myra?" As much as I dislike girls,particularly beautiful young ones, I found myselfexperiencing an emotion which might be called maternal. Ipromptly stifled it but was kind. "Of course you're notdisturbing me, Mary-Ann. My door is always open to you.Sit down. A cigarette? A Coke?" I realized too late that Iwas playing Gail Patrick and would have to continueflashing brilliant smiles for the remainder of the two-scenesince I seldom abandon a role once I have embarked upon