User:Chelsey.brantley/sandbox: Difference between revisions

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and turned me, in a blink, credible, at least to you, at least where it counts. I slap my fists together and at the bell I meet you for the first time as an equal.

==IV==

The problem now is as old as realism. You don’t want all the grunts, the

shortness of breath, the sound of leather on skin, and I don’t want to tell you in great detail. But it’s all there, the throwing of punches, the clinches, the head butting, the swelling of injured faces. If I forget to, then you put it in. For I am too busy taking the measure of my opponent to feel the slap of his glove against my flesh. The bell has moved us into a new field of force. We drop our pens. The spotlight is the glare of eternity, and what it has all come to is simply the matter of Truth. “Existentialist” I call him, spitting out my mouthpiece, though in practice I have recited Peter Piper a dozen times and kept the mouthpiece in. “Dated existentialist. Insincere existentialist.

Jewish existentialist . . . ” I hit him with this smooth combination, but he continues to rush me bearlike, serene, full of skill and power.

“Campy lightweight,” he yells, in full charge as I sidestep his rush and he

tangles his upper body in the ropes.

I come up behind, and as well as I can with the gross movement of the

glove I pull back his head and expose the blue gnarled cacophony of his neck.

“I am Abraham and you the ram caught in the thicket,” I announce from behind. “I have been an outcast in many lands, I bear the covenant, and you {{pg|509|510}}

[[Category:Short Stories (MR)]]

@@ Line 78: / Line 78: @@
 and turned me, in a blink, credible, at least to you, at least where it counts. I slap my fists together and at the bell I meet you for the first time as an equal.
 ==IV==
+The problem now is as old as realism. You don’t want all the grunts, the
+shortness of breath, the sound of leather on skin, and I don’t want to tell you in great detail. But it’s all there, the throwing of punches, the clinches, the head butting, the swelling of injured faces. If I forget to, then you put it in. For I am too busy taking the measure of my opponent to feel the slap of his glove against my flesh. The bell has moved us into a new field of force. We drop our pens. The spotlight is the glare of eternity, and what it has all come to is simply the matter of Truth. “Existentialist” I call him, spitting out my mouthpiece, though in practice I have recited Peter Piper a dozen times and kept the mouthpiece in. “Dated existentialist. Insincere existentialist.
+Jewish existentialist . . . ” I hit him with this smooth combination, but he continues to rush me bearlike, serene, full of skill and power.
+“Campy lightweight,” he yells, in full charge as I sidestep his rush and he
+tangles his upper body in the ropes.
+I come up behind, and as well as I can with the gross movement of the
+glove I pull back his head and expose the blue gnarled cacophony of his neck.
+“I am Abraham and you the ram caught in the thicket,” I announce from behind. “I have been an outcast in many lands, I bear the covenant, and you {{pg|509|510}}
 {{Review}}
 {{DEFAULTSORT:Inside Norman Mailer}}
 [[Category:Short Stories (MR)]]