They are a learned group, they express themselves well, one wonders why they don't open blogs of their own (perhaps some do), though one suspects that they need the launching pad of focused antagonism. Westhusing it is we ourselves who sully and are sullied, we ourselves who mother and father the creations we then choose to abort.Ī word about blog-commentators: I often read mine, many of whom seem to read me for their day's quota of disgust, contempt and fury. I suppose what I'm feeling here is the moral preached in ninety percent of sermons and taught in ninety percent of schools and churches, that the things which drive us up the wall are ultimately in our own minds, choices and actions and that like Col. It was what the mother and father did together."
It wasn't what the doctors did, it wasn't what the woman did.
He tells us that Michelle left him for a man who failed to read her suicide note lying beside him on the pillow he realizes how much he loved her and concludes "I know they argue about whether or not it's right, whether or not the baby is alive at this point or that point in its growth inside the womb. A sixteen year old girl, lost in a cocaine paradise, leads him to a slum hotel where he buys some for himself. It's called "Dirty Weddings," and begins with the narrator taking his girl friend Michelle to a NYC abortion clinic where he acts up and is thrown out, first among picketers who throw a holy water on him and then into an el train where he observes in the windows flashing by, kids watching tv, women putting on make-up, men spooning soup into their faces, the morning's debris of breakfast, quarrels, numbness, passion.
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