Opening the door of his chest he shows, painted inside, the body of
his soul ... 'Here is the place,' he says, 'here.'
Dennis Silk, on Cesare the Somnambulist, a marionette
Felicity or not
I had a large doll with a gauzy dress and bonnet, maybe called Felicity, maybe called nothing at all. She was made of rubber, which eventually cracked: the palms of her hands parched with drought, and the wads of felt offal inside her came out. There was no rhyme to it at the time. I cried. Gradually the voice box in her stomach, too, wore out: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to ... keep ... I couldn't remember: what comes next?
The rest is available in PN Review 200, Volume 37 Number 6, June - July 2011
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