That summer, none of us could be persuaded to go to mass. Sundays were recuperative, hangovers were held at bay by ice tea infused with rum and vodka. Tennis was avoided until the later side of afternoon. But all day long the girls cast doubt on the characters of people they had seen the night before (for the first time) across a crowded room. To them this was a playful game of reputations. On "outsiders" with nothing to lose, they passed every possible judgment, too easily. The delusions came like waves: the first a whisper, the second a rumor, the thirsty third (redoubling the crests of the previous two) shattered on the sand like champagne glasses. the thousand jagged pieces of the now collective lie. And I said nothing. To participate in the diaspora of misinformation (and at this point, this late in the season) to repeat the reckless speech of others or even to debate them gave weight to speculation, gave credence to the lies.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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