Jean Beraud Le Bal Mabile paintingJean Beraud Jeune femme traversant le boulevard paintingJean Beraud A Game of Billiards painting
me_. He was a tyro puppeteer; it was necessary to study the strings, to find out what was connected to what . . . "I can't help it," Allie was saying. "I feel in some obscure way to blame for him. Our life isn't working out and it's my fault. My mother gets angry when I talk like this." Alicja, on the verge of catching the plane west, berated her daughter at Terminal Three. "I don't understand where you get these notions from," she cried amid backpackers, briefcases and weeping Asian mums. "You could say your father's life didn't go according to plan, either. So he should be blamed for the camps? Study history, Alleluia. In this century history stopped paying attention to the old psychological orientation of reality. I mean, these days, character isn't destiny any more. Economics is destiny. Ideology is destiny. Bombs are destiny. What does a famine, a gas chamber, a grenade care how you your pathetic individual self doesn't have a thing to do with it, only to suffer the effects. This Gibreel of yours: maybe he's how history happens to you." She had returned, without warning, to the grand style
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