The good self was formed by these threats: an artificial bloom. In this incubator of fear, her goodness bloomed merely as the only known way to hold and attract love.

There were other selves which interested her more but which she learned to conceal or to stifle: her inventive, fantasy-weaving self who loved tales, her high-tempered self who flared like heat lightning, her stormy self, the lies which were not lies but an improvement on reality.

She had loved strong language like ginger upon the lips. But her parents had said: "From you we don't expect this, not from you." And appointed her as a guard upon her brothers, asking her to enforce their laws, just as Rango had appointed her now a guard against his disintegrations.

So that she had learned the only reconciliation she could find: she learned to preserve the balance between crime and punishment. She took her place against the wall, face to the wall, and then muttered, "Damn damn damn damn," as many times as she pleased, since she was simultaneously punishing herself and felt absolved, with no time wasted on contrition.

And now this good self could no longer be discarded. It had a compulsive life, its legend, its devotees! Every time she yielded to its sway she increased her responsibilities, for new devotees appeared, demanding perpetual attendance.

If Rango asked her today to take care of Zora, it was because he had heard, and he knew, of many past instances when she had taken care of others.

This indestructible good self, this false and wearying good self who answered prayers: Djuna, I need you; Djuna, console me; Djuna, you carry palliatives (why had she studied the art of healing, all the philters against pain?); Djuna, bring your wand; Djuna, we'll take you to Rango, not the Rango of the joyous guitar and the warm songs, but Rango, the husband of a woman who is always ill. It will break your heart, Djuna of the fracturable heart, your heart will fracture with a sound of wind chimes and the pieces will be iridescent. Where they fall new plants will grow instantly, and it is to the advantage of a new crop of breakable hearts that yours should fracture often, for the artist is like the religious man, he believes that denial of worldly possessions and acceptance of pain and trouble will give birth to the marvelous—sainthood or art.

(This goodness is a role, too tight around me; it is a costume I can no longer wear. There are other selves trying to be born, demanding at least a hearing!)

Your past history influenced your choice, Djuna; you have shown capabilities to lessen pain and so you are not invited to the fiestas.

Irrevocable extension of past roles, and no reversal possible. Too many witnesses to past compassions, past abdications, and they will look scandalized by any alteration of your character and will reawaken your old guilts. Face to the wall! This time so that Rango may not see your rebellion in your face. Rango's wife is mortally ill and you are to bring your philters.