We Are What We Are

Now this is more like it--from another window, drunken bellowing in Russian accompanied by garish (trust me) Russian breakables being smashed; this guy, it's almost a weekly routine with him. Ah, but that's my Brighton.

As I think about it, I have spent an inordinate deal of time and mental capital these past few days entertaining uncharitable thoughts about several elderly people I know. Granted, I've had my reasons; but I wonder whether there isn't happening inside me some reflexive action triggered by the final weeks and days and hours of Jean Valjean--specifically, by their finally maddening martyred passivity. Marius, in fury at misunderstanding (an elemental fury, Misunderstanding with a capital "M"), screaming at the dying hero through helpless tears: Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me? Marius, how I sympathize with you in this scene. The dying voice: How could I? Unanswerable.