The wrecked images that his bout with Alzheimer's hurl at him from time to time have left him jumpy and dazed, but curiously alert. And in one conversation about her memory, I asked her if she remembered little Owen Meany. Vietnamese children? I asked. OKAY, he said; he shrugged.
That ranks right up there with the opening chapter to The Mayor ofCasterbridge, wherein Michael Hen-chard gets s Owen had cut it himself, polished it himself; he had designed and chiseled the border himself, and the engraving was all his, too. You were thinking of yourself-you'd even been writing your own name, just moments before. The point is, my grandmother was never a censor; she simply believed that Owen and I should go to bed at a decent hour.
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