Three Score & Ten

There are still a dozen or more snapshots aged one, two and two and a half, lying, sitting, crawling, and running. They aren’t bad; but all in all, they merely lead up to the full-length portrait they had taken of me in honour of my third birthday.

Here I’ve got it. I’ve got my drum. It is hanging in front of my tummy, brand new with its serrated red and white fields. With a solemnly resolute expression, I hold the sticks crossed over the top of it. I have on a striped pull-over and resplendent patent leather shoes. My hair is standing up like a brush ready for action and in each of my blue eyes is reflected the determination to wield a power that would have no need of vassals or henchmen. It was in this picture that I first arrived at a decision which I have had no reason to alter. It was then that I declared, resolved, and determined that I would never under any circumstances be a politician, much less a grocer, that I would stop right there, remain as I was – and so I did; for many years I not only stayed the same size but clung to the same attire.

 Gunter Grass, The Tin Drum

She jammed the stopper into the hole, still cursing Mike (the bastard), wrenched the faucets closed and threw the face cloth into the sink. She scrubbed her face, still muttering and Helen, her 3 year old daughter, knocked on the door. Irene jerked the door open. What do you want? Helen put her thumb in her mouth and stared at her mother. Well? Have to go peepee Mommy. Well, go ahead. Helen went to the bathroom and Irene rinsed then dried her face. Im going to be late. I just know it. She attacked her hair with a brush and Arthur, almost 18 months old, started crying. O godDAMNit. She threw the hair brush into the tub (Helens thumb was still in her mouth and she waited until Irene left the bathroom before sliding off the seat, flushing the toilet and running into the living room)…

 Hubert Selby Jr., Last Exit to Brooklyn