#Silent sniper log horizon pro#

The have-nots, it turned out, aspired mainly to having. One oppressed class after another had seemed finally to miss the point. Marxism in this country had ever been an eccentric and quixotic passion. In fact there was an idea, and the idea was Marxist, and it was precisely to the extent that there was this Marxist idea that the curious historical anomaly known as the womenвЂ™s movement would have seemed to have any interest at all.

#Silent sniper log horizon pro#

вЂњThat was a very pretty image, the idle ladies sitting in the gazebo and murmuring lasciate ogni speranza, but it depended entirely upon the popular view of the movement as some kind of collective inchoate yearning for вЂњfulfillment,вЂќ or вЂњself-expression,вЂќ a yearning absolutely devoid of ideas and capable of engendering only the most pro forma benevolent interest. The startling fact was this: my body was offering a precise physiological equivalent to what had been going on in my mind.вЂќ I could be struck by lightning, could dare to eat a peach and be poisoned by the cyanide in the stone. In a few lines of dialogue in a neurologistвЂ™s office in Beverly Hills, the improbable had become the probable, the norm: things which happened only to other people could in fact happen to me. I had, at this time, a sharp apprehension not of what it was like to be old but of what it was like to open the door to the stranger and find that the stranger did indeed have the knife. This was, the neurologist said, an exclusionary diagnosis, and meant nothing. The name was multiple sclerosis, but the name had no meaning. The condition had a name, the kind of name usually associated with telethons, but the name meant nothing and the neurologist did not like to use it. Their effects might be lessened by cortisone injections, or they might not. They might or might not involve my arms or legs, they might or might not be disabling.

These symptoms, which might or might not appear, might or might not involve my eyes.

I might or might not experience symptoms of neural damage all my life. вЂњI was told that the disorder was not really in my eyes, but in my central nervous system. Acquaintances read The New York Times, and try to tell me the news of the world. Quite often during the past several years I have felt myself a sleepwalker, moving through the world unconscious of the momentвЂ™s high issues, oblivious to its data, alert only to the stuff of bad dreams, the children burning in the locked car in the supermarket parking lot, the bike boys stripping down stolen cars on the captive crippleвЂ™s ranch, the freeway sniper who feels вЂњreal badвЂќ about picking off the family of five, the hustlers, the insane, the cunning Okie faces that turn up in military investigations, the sullen lurkers in doorways, the lost children, all the ignorant armies jostling in the night. You are getting a woman who somewhere along the line misplaced whatever slight faith she ever had in the social contract, in the meliorative principle, in the whole grand pattern of human endeavor. I want you to understand exactly what you are getting: you are getting a woman who for some time now has felt radically separated from most of the ideas that seem to interest people. вЂњI tell you this not as aimless revelation but because I want you to know, as you read me, precisely who I am and where I am and what is on my mind.