November 15, 1887 -- Poet Marianne Moore born. She wrote:
"The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease. Distaste which takes no credit to itself is best."
She waved Doug off and tapped her cigarette ash onto the floor. She was facing Sully now.
“I had high hopes for us, I really did,” she said. “You know that?”
“No, you don’t. That didn’t even occur to you. Jesus, you’re a selfish bastard.”
“Sully. The name fits.”
“You’ve sullied everything you’ve ever touched.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Yeah. Me, too. I had hopes.” She pressed her hand to the back of his neck. “Well, thanks for the beer,” she said, and, steadying herself on his shoulder, she got up and took off.
Maybe Dr. Johnson, Sully thought, had done too much reading and not enough drinking. There was nothing like a bar, he himself had found, for driving home to one the vanity of human hopes. -- Chapter 21, The Misforgotten.