It is, perhaps, an interesting delineation that Stephen never knew her as Vauquelin; he never knew her before all of those things were ripped away from her. To him, Gwenaëlle’s always been this new self-made creature. He came sauntering in during her second chapter (or the third, or the fourth), already written, ink still drying.
“What do you think he wanted?” Stephen asks, his fingers interlacing further into hers, falling back into the automatic unthinking steps of the dance.
A generous interpretation would be maybe Marcellin was feeling contrite, and apologetic, and just wanted to reconnect with his sister. But if there’s one thing he’s starting to grasp about this awful game (Game), it’s that they are all wanting and wanting and striving for something. No one seems to do anything for free. He’s been learning the right buttons to push himself, getting a Lydes professor in his pocket: pressing on some hungry naked ambition and petty comeuppance here, some raw grief there. Stephen’s never going to be excellent at it, but he’s starting to see the seams a little better. The shape and pattern of this particular social machine.
no subject
“What do you think he wanted?” Stephen asks, his fingers interlacing further into hers, falling back into the automatic unthinking steps of the dance.
A generous interpretation would be maybe Marcellin was feeling contrite, and apologetic, and just wanted to reconnect with his sister. But if there’s one thing he’s starting to grasp about this awful game (Game), it’s that they are all wanting and wanting and striving for something. No one seems to do anything for free. He’s been learning the right buttons to push himself, getting a Lydes professor in his pocket: pressing on some hungry naked ambition and petty comeuppance here, some raw grief there. Stephen’s never going to be excellent at it, but he’s starting to see the seams a little better. The shape and pattern of this particular social machine.