Dick Virginia's fake novel To The Blighthouse.

Mr Ramsay circled the house muttering of failures, things stagnating and dismal pools of the water under the eaves, things begging, positively dying by the minute, waiting to be taken unto the air.  Along came Verne Gagne and Mr Ramsay tossed his own ball onto the ground, like a challenger, Equatorial Guinea or Ancient Nippon, these things spoke to them, stupids they were.

But what was it?  Chris's Better Angels, right?  Yes, there was always that at the offing, a sacrificing, pure Camelot, Dulce De Leche poured into our unwitting ears, any excuse, the lesser of two weevils, always an excuse, a prevarication, some precept that weighed more and need more of a place on the trailer; "hell with the couch" they said, and tossed it aside.  They were going for an easy chair, somewhere in the grand scheme.

Kierkegaard the Broken Sequel completed his circle of the house, coming all the way back around, having seen the whole thing, proved his health, and showed something of his own permanence and immovable quality, that preposterousness illustrated by his taking the full survey of the home, proper, the old home place.

Mrs Henderson sat and watched, haunched, and watched in kind of an empty joy that surpassed ball-flinging, and went to some undiscovered province beyond Chris's Better Angels.  She was a widower, and sort of a silent friend to all, bound to them in silence, and standing at their elbows, however that worked, and she made it work just the same; she may as well have been a Glade plug-in or a singing bass without batteries, but her silent friendship gave off in that quietude a kind of low warmth that set in after a time, her just taking to the corner and sitting there.  One didn't know if she were buying drugs, meeting a man, hustling pictures of her bare thighs or something, but she hovered just the same, like an early brisk fog, and her low magnitude of electricity and warmth tingled.

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