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Show SUDDEN MODELING Who was Anne? what was Love? and what did it all have to do with an eight-foot eggplant? Hunt walked out onto the ice of his New Hampshire lake and wondered. His agent, Suskind in New York, loved his recent work. "Fruits and vegetables! Fruits and vegetables! Brilliant! Hot! Banks love fruits! Hospitals love vegetables! Brilliant! Mery sexy! Do a series of breads!" But what did Suskind know about the extemporaneous heart? The sudden clots to the brain. The stoppage of air: panicked, unventilated choking. I'm confused, you asshole! Hunt had wanted to shout over the phone to his agent, the man jacking him up and off with lines like: "Modern classic! Dutch masters! Giant fucking Cezzanne!" But how do you explain blood to a man ecstatic about macrocosmic endives? Hunt was stupid about Women. In the February wind, on this scrabbled ice, halfway across the bay, his Irish knit Leah'd made tangling its yellowed wool in his hair and by his mouth, Hunt confessed that: "I am a stupid person about women;" and the words, out, were immediately steam. He was stupid about Leah, who was real. He was stupid about Anne, a passionate but distant . . . what? direction, possible direction, an idea: "Do you really know who I am?!" she'd written him. So Hunt was stupid about Reality, and he was stupid about Ideas: He was making avocadoes into monuments; What was left?! |