Get me more Choglet

Of course this is not the copy I am reading from.
So, basically, after a whole lot of whine, Edmund White kicked ass in the last chapter. Also, laughter, towards the end of the book, when the light was breaking on my night. I didn’t associate White with funny, but there were these moments of robust disgust. Mane, in the last chapter, he lets go of that careful craftedness and it’s more a human being, a boy who is not this distilled consciousness. The last paragraph reminds you of a poem.
(this poem:
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.)
So, well, a lot fills me with disgust and fear and sadness now. I thought of what it would be if I lost my mother and what would happen with Floppy and it made me sick with dread. What will happen to the dog about F’s age, who is going to have puppies? Another cycle of early deaths. What will happen to Flop when I go away? How can I give her away? She slept with her face jammed into the crook of my arm yesterday. Which animal but one who knows nothing other than to trust you does that? A tiger is dying of cancer in Lucknow zoo and they are thinking of putting him down. In Long Island, a woman would buy dogs, torture and kill them. A one year old pit bull was put down in Brooklyn because it was unfit to live among humans or animals, apparently. What does that mean? This after she recovered after she was thrown down a storey (or was it more?) by her owner and had a broken leg and broken something else. In her photograph, she had the most serene eyes ever, looking deeply.
I remember telling my cousin once, when I was in school, that I imagined what would be if I were in the same situation as a boy in a Hindi film I had seen, a boy of five or seven, who is left crying after his entire family is shot while they are going somewhere. And my cousin had wondered what a gruesome imagination I had. And then years later, I think I remembered what I had thought when my father died. And well, all the times I had wondered how I would feel if I lost him, he who I thought was the centre of the world and he was. Was that somehow responsible for bringing on his death? Can you wish people dead? How terrible it must be to wish people dead out of your indulgence to feeling. And am I doing it again? It is like a reckoning of your own love for those who are most precious to you, to imagine how you would react to their deaths. And do you reduce their life span by it? Like Donne had asked his lover not to sigh for him, for with every breath, she reduced his life a little?