October 21 — Alice is gone. Let's see if I can remember.
It started when she said we couldn't live like this with the torn books and papers and records all over the floor and the place in such a mess.
"Leave everything the way it is," I warned her. "Why do you want to live this way?"
"I want everything where I put it. I want to see it all out here.
You don't know what it's like to have something happening inside you,
that you can't see and can't control, and know it's all slipping through your fingers."
"You're right. I never said I could understand the things that were happening to you.
Not when you became too intelligent for me, and not now.
But I'll tell you one thing. Before you had the operation, you weren't like this.
You didn't wallow in your own filth and self-pity,
you didn't pollute your own mind by sitting in front of the TV set all day and night, you didn't snarl and snap at people.
There was something about you that made us respect you—yes, even as you were. You had something I had never seen in a retarded person before."
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