The End of the Alphabet

A man can see a hundred women, lust for a thousand more, but it is one scent that will open his eyes and turn him to love.

When his father asked why A wasn't apple or B wasn't bird or C wasn't cat, young Ambrose explained that things didn't always have to be the way you'd expect. Everybody does apples and birds and cats, he said, and it's boring to do what everybody else does.

In the face of all reason she was interested in him as he was. Not as he wished he was.

He believed women to be quantifiably wiser than men. He was neither a breast nor a leg nor an ass man; hair could be any length, any colour. Ambrose preferred the complete puzzle to a bit here, a piece there.

Le aveva detto che era stato lui a insegnare a un nipote fastidiosamente curioso a leggere i sottotitoli della vita.

Migliaia di parole le svolazzavano in testa, ma non riusciva a farne atterrare sulla pagina nemmeno una.

This was not her Ambrose, she thought at first. But then, apparently, it was.

But times, as are their custom, had changed.

With the proper amount of squint.

This is now, Zipper said, as she picked up a small stone and slid it in her pocket.

...painted by a troubled young man, Mrs. Zephyr was saying... cut off part of his own ear... Ambrose went back to looking. What he saw didn't need his mother going on about symbols and meanings and madness and genius, he thought. She knew a lot, but she didn't know when to stop complicating things. The sunflowers were like none he had ever seen, ear or no ear, troubles or not. Ambrose Zephyr liked what he liked and didn't like what he didn't like. It was as simple as that.