The Dwarfs: A Novel (Pinter, Harold)
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“Brilliant, cranky, and eccentric, and the narrative passages are some of the most thrilling ever written.” —Library Journal
“Some of the author’s most enduring themes—notably, sexual jealousy and betrayal—are present. . . . The narration shows traces of writers as various as Joyce and Beckett, e.e. cummings and J.P. Donleavy.” —The Washington Post
“The Abbott and Costello meet Samuel Beckett dialogue . . . makes you laugh out loud.” —The Village Voice
book, eh? Pete said. Len covered his eyes with his hands. - Doesn’t matter about that, Pete said. Watch this. See how many I can do. - What? - Keep a count. Pete lay stomach down on the floor and began to propel himself up and down, on his forearms. Len leaned forward, watching him. - How many? Pete grunted. - Fifteen. Pete continued, staring in front of him. - Twenty. - Uh. - Twenty-five. - Uh. - Twenty-nine. - Enough. He relaxed and grinned, sitting on the floor. - Not bad, eh?
course, most women have minds like mouldy larders. It could hardly be otherwise, I suppose. I remember the last time I saw Marie Saxon. She was in a swimming costume. Her breasts were flopping about like washing on a line. She exists within that framework, such as it is, of course. Her life naturally resolves itself into a neverending bout of selftitillation. That’s what she understands by life. But if you’re falling into that error, I’m disappointed, to be quite frank. I’ve told you before where
that garden. I told you I was cold. You knew what I said. I am a bat. I must not be a bat. I shall leave you. Twenty-three - Shakespeare! Pete exclaimed, placing his mug with a thump on the table, what was Shakespeare? Only a jobbing playwright. A butcher’s boy with a randy eye. And yet he made his point. You know what you look like when you drink that beer? A porpoise with all its suckers working. - That’s it, Mark said. Where these people go wrong is in trying to give him a name and number.
the dressmaker for the whole business. Pete came in with a brown paper parcel under his arm and placed it on the table. He flapped the parcel open and took out a white summer dress, which he handed to her. She took off her sweater and skirt and changed into it. - Stay still. She stood, turning. - Go to the window. She walked to the window, held her skirt, turned, gazed at her reflection in the mirror. - Like it? Stay where you are. The sun’s down your sides and on your neck. You look
- I never look. Probably tickling each other in the vernacular. I keep well out of it. - Do they let you? - They don’t come near me. They know I’d cut ‘em into tripes. - Was it hot today? - Hot? I was mummified. The sea air did me good. Nice to watch the muck float. Virginia walked to the mirror and looked at herself. She turned. - Pete? - Yes? - What do you think of: the sun? - What do I what? - How do you look upon the sun? - What do you mean, how do I look upon it? - No, it doesn’t