She is eighty. Facing death, she becomes 'a cruising mind', lost in
sequences of unabstract comic detail, in - as the title implies - a
kind of index, rigid, arbitrary, pointing backwards into the lived
text. The head top leans against the bathroom mirror so that the
looking glass becomes a feeling glass. She is getting worse day by
day, and yet she goes on, deeper into meaning, into non-meaning,
with a kind of wry eagerness. She is not disappointed with her
life. In order to distract herself, to place herself, she attends
to what the media say about the world as if what they say was
actually the world. She reflects on her own career, on her
experiments with narrative, and on the narrative she is writing
here: therapy, fun, but anything else, anything more? What is its
purpose, and what the purpose of the life that lives it in the
writing? She discovers how, as in fiction, as in any form of
experiment, the difficulty for the handicapped is less the handicap
than other people, and they too have their lives and handicaps. She
becomes like them, she becomes one of them, an other
person.Reasserting herself, at the centre of the book, in a
mock-technical lecture from a character to an author who is not
interested, she comes to accept that her experiments in narrative
are like pain-killers, and that they no longer matter, like life.
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