these many arrivals she witnessed in the world with any awe and reverence, these many arrivals to her were not unlike the yield of the fields, the yield of the sea, and yields of every kind are commonplace, and are taken for granted, except when yields of every kind fail to do soâyield.
And the pain she felt rending her body, starting with the wet spot between her legs and ending just below her breastbone and making her entire body seeming to be made up of just this area of her body, and all that pain, so big, so big, producing only this small ball of complacency (it was Mr. Potter), and from all that came Mr. Potter, so startlingly rash and innocent, his gelatinous lungs first closely fitted together and then, through his own efforts, expanding so he could then become part of the thing called living. But looking at that small ball of complacency and rashness and innocence: how she loved him, and not knowing what to do with such a thing, this love, she then named him
Rodney, after the English maritime criminal George Brydges Rodney, a man whose criminal nature and accomplishments had become so distorted in retelling that the victims of his actions had come to revere him. Elfrida Robinsonâs life at sixteen was already shriveled and pinched, and the great expanse of the life of George Brydges Rodney, the English admiral, the second son of Henry Rodney of Walton-on-Thames, overwhelmed her (for he was in the official realm of history) and seemed distant, for he really was in the official realm of history, and the distance was also familiar and common, and for her son, whose appearance in the world had no real meaning for her, she wanted a name that had no meaning at all to her, and this wanting of no meaning made her choose something different, and so she called him Roderick, not Rodney. There are many people in that part of the world, that small part of the overwhelmingly large world, called Rodney, but not Mr. Potter. Mr. Potterâs name was Roderick and that man, Roderick Potter, was my father.
And in the middle of the night, just when Mr. Potter was being born and so had no real name yet, the contents of Nurse Sylvia Eudelleâs stomach, there since dinnertime six hours ago, had never settled and it bubbled up like some undiscovered fluid, precious or not, traveling just beneath the earthâs surface and it made her irritable and then spontaneously explosive
and then treacherously calm. The room in which Mr. Potter was born made up the entire house, and the walls of that room, which was really a house in itself, were not painted and nothing hung on them. And in a corner of that room, which was the house in its entirety, stood an enamel pail full of hot water, though by the time Mr. Potter was born the water was no longer hot but it was not cold completely; and in another corner was a box made of thin wood and in this box were sheets made of white cotton and small gowns made of white cotton and a little bonnet made of white cotton and all these things Elfrida had made for the baby she was carrying in her stomach (she did not know then that it would be Mr. Potter); and behind the box made of thin wood was a rat and the rat was still, perhaps asleep or perhaps only taking a rest on a very busy night for a baby was just to be born; and in another corner, that would be three corners now, was a gathering of dust, and in the fourth corner was a gathering of dust also, and all the corners with their contents were indifferent to Elfridaâs cries for she was in such pain, and her cries pierced through the walls of the room, the house it was, and reached all the way up to the dark skies, for the clouds were thick and blocked out the light from the moon, which was full and brimming over with brightness, and the stars, which were agleam and blinding with reflected light, and the night was empty to Elfridaâs cries, not even an
echo accompanied them. And a loud sound, like a grunt and like a dogâs bark,
And the pain she felt rending her body, starting with the wet spot between her legs and ending just below her breastbone and making her entire body seeming to be made up of just this area of her body, and all that pain, so big, so big, producing only this small ball of complacency (it was Mr. Potter), and from all that came Mr. Potter, so startlingly rash and innocent, his gelatinous lungs first closely fitted together and then, through his own efforts, expanding so he could then become part of the thing called living. But looking at that small ball of complacency and rashness and innocence: how she loved him, and not knowing what to do with such a thing, this love, she then named him
Rodney, after the English maritime criminal George Brydges Rodney, a man whose criminal nature and accomplishments had become so distorted in retelling that the victims of his actions had come to revere him. Elfrida Robinsonâs life at sixteen was already shriveled and pinched, and the great expanse of the life of George Brydges Rodney, the English admiral, the second son of Henry Rodney of Walton-on-Thames, overwhelmed her (for he was in the official realm of history) and seemed distant, for he really was in the official realm of history, and the distance was also familiar and common, and for her son, whose appearance in the world had no real meaning for her, she wanted a name that had no meaning at all to her, and this wanting of no meaning made her choose something different, and so she called him Roderick, not Rodney. There are many people in that part of the world, that small part of the overwhelmingly large world, called Rodney, but not Mr. Potter. Mr. Potterâs name was Roderick and that man, Roderick Potter, was my father.
And in the middle of the night, just when Mr. Potter was being born and so had no real name yet, the contents of Nurse Sylvia Eudelleâs stomach, there since dinnertime six hours ago, had never settled and it bubbled up like some undiscovered fluid, precious or not, traveling just beneath the earthâs surface and it made her irritable and then spontaneously explosive
and then treacherously calm. The room in which Mr. Potter was born made up the entire house, and the walls of that room, which was really a house in itself, were not painted and nothing hung on them. And in a corner of that room, which was the house in its entirety, stood an enamel pail full of hot water, though by the time Mr. Potter was born the water was no longer hot but it was not cold completely; and in another corner was a box made of thin wood and in this box were sheets made of white cotton and small gowns made of white cotton and a little bonnet made of white cotton and all these things Elfrida had made for the baby she was carrying in her stomach (she did not know then that it would be Mr. Potter); and behind the box made of thin wood was a rat and the rat was still, perhaps asleep or perhaps only taking a rest on a very busy night for a baby was just to be born; and in another corner, that would be three corners now, was a gathering of dust, and in the fourth corner was a gathering of dust also, and all the corners with their contents were indifferent to Elfridaâs cries for she was in such pain, and her cries pierced through the walls of the room, the house it was, and reached all the way up to the dark skies, for the clouds were thick and blocked out the light from the moon, which was full and brimming over with brightness, and the stars, which were agleam and blinding with reflected light, and the night was empty to Elfridaâs cries, not even an
echo accompanied them. And a loud sound, like a grunt and like a dogâs bark,
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