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Praise for Teaching for Deeper Learning
....................
Jay McTighe and Harvey Silver bring together their wealth of
knowledge and ideas around powerful thinking skills, essential
questions, and concept-based curriculum to help teachers effect
deep learning and transfer. They had the insight to see how using
seven major thinking skills to facilitate greater knowledge acquisition
could become the springboard to the crafting of "big ideas"—the
transferable, conceptual understandings that reflect deep learning.
This easy-to-read book flows from chapter to chapter with practical
tools, ideas, and examples to guide the teacher in facilitating
meaning making.
This is the book you'll want to extend your instructional skills and
expand your backpack of strategies to support how the brain learns
best. By engaging thinking skills to help students actively process
information, teachers leverage the brain's executive functions to
deepen student understanding and achieve learning that lasts.
Table of Contents
Praise
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Preface
Introduction
4. Comparing
References
Copyright
© ASCD 2020
Dedication
....................
Sir Isaac Newton said the reason he saw so far is that he stood on
the shoulders of giants. We have also worked with two giants:
Richard Strong and Grant Wiggins. They were wonderful friends,
colleagues, and education thought leaders. Although they are no
longer with us, their ideas are alive within this book, which we
humbly dedicate to them.
Acknowledgments
....................
Writing this book was a labor of love for both of us. It's not a simple
task to synthesize ideas from nearly 100 years of collective work
developed over two parallel careers. Throughout the process, we
have had rich conversations, raised questions, and even debated
several points, but in the end, we think this text represents a truly
collaborative integration of the ideas of Understanding by Design®
and The Thoughtful Classroom™.
....................
Legend has it that the world-renowned architect and thinker
Buckminster Fuller once told an aspiring young architect that a great
design must achieve four goals. Fuller framed these goals as the
following four simple questions:
These four questions have guided the design of this book. First,
we set out with a clear purpose: to help educators make the critical
shift from providing information to students (a knowledge
consumption model) to empowering students to become active
meaning makers who seek deep understanding and are able to
transfer their learning.
Then there's that last question, the most subjective one of all: Is
it beautiful? One way to think of beauty is as something that is both
simple and deep, like a haiku—easy to comprehend but profound in
its effect. In writing a book full of simple tools designed to create
deep change in classrooms and schools, we sincerely hope that we
have met this beautiful standard of simplicity and depth. Most
important, we hope that we inspire you—a designer of instruction—
to see the beauty in what you teach, in how you teach it, and in the
impact your work has on students' futures.
Introduction
....................
Mitosis versus meiosis, logarithms, the Battle of Hastings: can you
recall a time in high school or college when you "learned" something
and were able to pass a test on it, only to quickly forget it? Perhaps
the information was not important to you, or maybe you only learned
it by rote. Cognitive psychologists have characterized such learning
as inert knowledge—learning that was superficially acquired, never
really understood, and promptly forgotten (National Research
Council, 2000). Now contrast those examples with something that
you really understand—learning that has endured. What is the
difference in how you came to learn and understand it? What can
you now do because of that understanding?
1. Conceptualizing
2. Note making and summarizing
3. Comparing
4. Reading for understanding
5. Predicting and hypothesizing
6. Visualizing and graphic representation
7. Perspective taking and empathizing
Use of these seven skills helps students achieve deep and lasting
learning by facilitating acquisition of information for greater retention
and retrieval, fostering active meaning making that leads to deeper
understanding of "big ideas," and building the ability to apply, or
transfer, learning to new situations both within school and beyond.
Why These Skills?
Obviously, there are a great many thinking skills that can enhance
meaning making and understanding. So why did we select these
seven in particular? We have made these skills the focus of this
book for the following reasons:
In sum, the thinking skills and tools that we've chosen to focus
on have a dual benefit: (1) as a means, they support active
construction of meaning by students, leading to deeper
understanding of core content; and (2) as an end, they provide
inherently valuable, transferable skills and tools that students can
use throughout school and life. The tools, therefore, are as much for
students as they are for you.
How the Book Is Organized
While our primary goal in putting this book together was to provide
educators with concrete skills and tools for engaging students in
active meaning making and deep learning, we felt that the book
wouldn't be complete without also discussing what kind of content is
worth making meaning about, how to incorporate the featured skills
and tools into lesson and unit design, and how to build students'
capacity to use the tools independently. Thus, we've made sure to
address each of these important elements within the book's nine
chapters. Let's look at how the information is organized.
Essential Questions
Big-Idea Understandings
Possible Essential Questions: How can you hit with greater power
without losing control?
Summing Up
In this chapter, we made the case that a modern-day curriculum
should be focused around important concepts that we want students
to come to understand. But designing instruction around big ideas is
only the start. If our goal is to prepare today's students for the
challenges they'll face both in and out of the classroom, we need to
think not only about what's worth teaching but also about how we
can help students make sense of the information they acquire and
apply their learning to new contexts. An effective way to help
students develop the necessary thinking and meaning-making skills
is to incorporate these skills into your everyday instructional design.
The tools and strategies in Chapters 2 through 8, and the
instructional planning processes in Chapter 9, will enable you to do
just that.
Chapter 2
Conceptualizing
....................
Concept Attainment
5. Help students review all the examples and develop a final and
accurate list of the concept's critical attributes. Then have
students define the concept in their own words, using examples
and attributes from the lesson to help them.
Example: After reviewing all the examples and helping students
refine their ideas, the teacher revealed that the concept students
had been working to understand was predator. Students then
defined predator as "an organism that kills and eats other
animals."
Source: From Tools for Classroom Instruction That Works: Ready-to-Use Techniques for
Perini, 2018, Franklin Lakes, NJ: Silver Strong & Associates/Thoughtful Education Press
and McREL International. © 2018 Silver Strong & Associates. Used with permission.
An ELA teacher used a yes-no table like the one in Figure 2.2 to
help students discover the concept of personification.
To save time, look for existing texts or materials that can serve
as yes and no examples rather than creating examples from scratch.
A history teacher, for example, might use documents found online as
the yes and no examples for a Concept Attainment lesson aimed at
helping students understand the concept of a primary source
document, as distinct from a secondary source.
Source: From Tools for Conquering the Common Core: Classroom-Ready Techniques for
Targeting the ELA/Literacy Standards (p. 117), by H. F. Silver and A. L. Boutz, 2015,
Franklin Lakes, NJ: Silver Strong & Associates/Thoughtful Education Press. © 2015 Silver
A Study In …
Illustrator: W. E. Terry
Language: English
Now he turned from the visiphone, as the image of Dr. Getty faded
out on its screen, and he frowned at Brave. "Son," he said, "why
would anybody take a potshot at me?"
"What does Doc Pomposity say about it?" rumbled the Indian.
"Mainly blah, blah, blah."
"Naturally," nodded Brave. "You know, sagamore, I think it's that
accident. There was something cockeyed about it.... I don't care how
shocked the fellow was, or how quickly the flame seared up and
anesthetized the wound; there should have been plenty of pain in
that hand. And he didn't even yip when it happened. He only looked
peeved."
"Getty says he never got to infirmary. No one has seen him at all."
"Cockeyed," said Brave again. "The whole thing's a muddle." He
stared at Alan. "Boss, I have an instinct that warns me we're in for
trouble."
"That's an instinct? When I get shot at, this gives you an instinct?"
"The noble red man has an instinct," said Brave imperturbably,
"which sits in his belly and beats on a tomtom when trouble's
coming. I don't mean ghastly wounds that don't make men cry out,
or even lunatics laying for you thereafter—and there's a connection
between the two, that's sure. But I mean big trouble. There's
something in the air. I can't quite catch it, but it's been there for a
long time. Weeks and months, sirdar."
"You've been reading the thesaurus again. You know more synonyms
for 'master' than Roget. You mean this seriously, Brave? About
trouble?" He had a respect for the Indian's intuition which was based
half on his anthropological knowledge of the weird powers of certain
older races, and half on pure human superstition; at times when
Brave made his predictions, Alan felt as though a gypsy crone had
passed by him and whispered some incantation in his ear.
"I mean it, Alan. And the damned instinct has never been wrong yet.
It's beating in my guts right now like it did at Campana just before
hell broke loose."
"Well, batten down the hatches, then," said Alan resignedly, while the
hair on the back of his neck prickled and tried to stand up. "It's got
itself off to a fine start, your trouble. My tailor will never be able to
mend this jacket."
"Why don't you cook us some oysters Rockefeller and lobster
thermidor and all that Frenchified goop you brew up?" suggested
Brave. "If we're in for afflictions, we may as well meet 'em with
pleasantly full stomachs."
"Right. While I'm at it, you write a report of the incident—of both of
them—and sign my name. Getty'll never know the difference. He
thinks you haven't mastered Basic English yet."
"Ugh," said Brave. "Noble red man will inscribe li'l pictures on
birchbark for medicine man, while medicine man raises cain in frozen
food locker. Don't get that sauce too thin this time, patriarch. I can't
bear watery sauce on my lobsters."
CHAPTER II
Next morning, while Alan was still dressing and yawning, and Brave
was clattering skillets in the kitchen, humming the allegro con
passionato movement from "Hard Hearted Hannah the Vamp of
Savannah," the door chimes bonged softly. Brave went to the
spywindow, surveyed the caller, and shifted his grenade pistol to a
handier position before opening the door. A stranger stood on the
threshold.
"Ichabod Crane," said Brave to himself, and aloud, "Yes?"
"Ah," said the stranger, "you would be the tough egg with the
unpronounceable name. Greetings, chieftain."
"How," said Brave with a straight face. "You want-um audience with
great sachem?"
"That I do, Lo."
"Oh, gad," groaned the Indian, "if I hear that weary old jest once
more I'll burst into tears and die. Come in, comedian. Dr. Rackham's
dressing."
"Thanks. Forgive me for the godawful gag, friend. I haven't eaten
breakfast yet and an empty stomach plays the devil with my sense of
humor." He rattled over to a chair and sat down. At least, thought
Brave, closing the door, you expected him to rattle. He was the
longest and thinnest bag of bones ever seen on Long Island. Fully six
feet eight, he was lean from the top of his narrow skull, which was
covered by an inch-long mat of straight stiff blond hair, to the soles of
his number twelve feet. If he had any fat in him at all it must have
been a very lonesome blob of fat indeed, well camouflaged and
utterly alone in a wilderness of stringy muscle, meager sinew, and
shaving-slender bones. His green eyes, perpetually half-lidded on
either side of a nose like the prow of a Chinese junk, were humorous
and sharp and as bright as polished emeralds.
Brave said to himself, Here is a shrewd customer, who isn't one-tenth
the fool he appears to be.
"You don't have an appointment with Dr. Rackham."
"No, I don't. A plump little meathead called Getty over at the central
offices said he'd be here, and I popped over on the chance. I want to
inveigle him onto a TV program of mine."
"Dr. Rackham is a busy man."
"So is President Blose of the U.S. of A., but he came on the program,
Lo. Pardon me," said the man, "there I go again. It's second nature. I
don't mean to offend, but I was a disk jockey once. Look, friend, my
name is Jim McEldownie. I'm Worlds of Portent McEldownie."
"I'm Lashings of Victuals Kiwanawatiwa, and my eggs are scorching,"
said Brave, going out to the kitchen. "The books are counted, so are
the pipes, and the first editions are booby-trapped. Don't get ideas."
"Injun, I could grow to love you," said McEldownie. "Listen, seriously,
don't you ever watch TV?"
"I do not."
"That explains it. Existing in the dark like this, you wouldn't have
heard of me. I run this klatch, see, called Worlds of Portent, onto
which I entice various important and pseudo-important characters,
and there I cajole and browbeat and query till they tell me all sorts of
fascinating lies, and the public laps it up like a bunch of silly cats."
Unquote, the Siamese, rose out of her hygienic playbox and gave him
a frozen glare. He recoiled. "My God," he said, "I seem to be
offending everyone this morning. Forgive me, puss."
Unquote snarled and collapsed in a boneless pile of beautiful fur. Alan
stuck his head into the room and said, "Where do you classify me?"
"Huh? Oh, hallo, Doc. You're important. Anybody from Project Star is
important. Whether the same can be said for those officials of our
mighty government who have gasped and babbled and turned blue
on Portent, I'm not one to declare. How about it, Doc? Will you
appear?"
"Talking about what? Fuel? That's all I really know."
"If you can talk for thirteen minutes about it, without violating any
regulations or giving away secrets, I want you. Fuel is hot stuff with
the space-minded John Q."
"What do you think, Brave? Should we do it?"
Brave said, "Too much time and no fun, that's how it sounds to me."
"Oh, I don't know. I've never been on the air."
"Please," said McEldownie, shuddering like a leafless willow in a high
wind. "The phrase is 'on the space.' Air belongs to that outmoded,
decadent, but apparently deathless medium called radio. There, I've
said it. Have you got any mouth-washing soap?"
"A positive Hilton Boil," said Brave in the kitchen. "A real yokked-up
comic. Wait till I've fed him and we'll hurl him out."
"All right," said Alan, "I'll do it. I'm a ham at heart. When do you
want me?"
"Tomorrow night at eight vacant?"
"As vacant as—" he was going to say "Dr. Getty's head," but caught
himself in time. The TV man's flippancy was contagious. "Quite
vacant. Give Brave the directions and we'll be there."
Brave said, "Breakfast is on. There are three plates and food for two.
I hope you eat lightly, Mr. Portent."
"McEldownie, but call me Jim. I eat like a bird."
The bird, thought Alan half an hour later, must be a starving turkey
buzzard; he sighed and stood up. "We're due at work, Jim. See you
at eight tomorrow, then?"
"Seven-fifteen. I have to brief you. Cheers, gentlemen. Apologize to
the cat for me. I insulted it a while back and it's been burning holes
in my neck ever since." He took himself off, still with the illusion of
rattling bonily. Alan and Brave washed up and strolled down to their
laboratory.
Nothing happened that day or the next, save for a thorough search
for the missing welder, which turned up no trace of him. At seven-
fifteen the two friends walked into the TV studio in Manhattan.
"Hi," said McEldownie, waving a long hand. "Sit down and let's gurgle
about fuel." They did so. At one point the lean man said, "An idea.
What if Brave were to stand behind you all through the program? It'd
look impressive as hell. Sinister Indian guards scientist even on
national hookup. 'No precaution too elaborate for our men,' says
head of Project Star. How about it?"
Alan looked at Brave. He would not expose his friend to stupid
ridicule. Brave winked. "Okay," said Alan. "But no gags."
"Abso-bloody-lutely. Play it for gravity. Show people that there is
danger connected with the business. And I think there is," he added
solemnly.
Alan stared. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't mean the TV, I mean your work out on Long Island. You can't
tell me that nobody in the world wishes our country any ill, chum. We
have enemies just as we always have had. Why else the ack-ack and
force screens?"
Alan did not answer. He thought of Brave's prediction of trouble, and
he was more impressed with this lanky comedian than he had been
before that moment.
Thirty seconds before the program time he sat down at the round
table opposite McEldownie, and Brave took up a forbidding posture
behind his chair.
His host began to speak, and suddenly Alan realized why the tall
blond irrepressible fellow had been trusted with a program of such
gravity as Worlds of Portent. As the cameras rolled and the brilliant
lights came on, the jester's motley dropped away from him and was
replaced by a cloak of earnest sobriety. His fantastic appearance
heightened the seriousness; it was as shocking and thought-
producing as if a scarecrow had begun to talk Schopenhauer.
He knew precisely how much to say; when to sit back and let Alan do
a monologue, and when to interrupt with a pertinent question. He
was a genius at his work.
And then, perhaps four or five minutes after the telecast had begun,
Alan became aware of two things, each quite extraordinary. First,
Brave had disappeared. Alan glanced back over his shoulder and
found the Indian had vanished. The lights were so bright that his
vision did not extend to the walls of the studio, so he presumed that
his friend was still there somewhere; but he had left the range of the
cameras. And secondly, something was happening to Alan's mind.
He tried to analyze the trouble, but he could not do it. He could only
touch a few salient points of it; the fact that although he was talking
very learnedly, and with (so far as he could tell) lucidity and vigor, he
was not controlling his tongue in the least. It was almost like being
drunk; there seemed to be a small entity perched on the root of his
tongue who was pulling the strings of speech. But whereas the
drunken entity was malicious and got him into all sorts of rows and
riots, this particular sprite was doing what seemed a fine job for him.
He knew quite well that he himself was not forming or directing the
words he spoke. It was unpleasant, to say the least.
And there was something else. His mind, freed of necessity to
concentrate on the program, was somewhere off in space, listening
intently ... listening to a voice from without and within, a voice that
inhabited the cold wastes of time and infinity as well as the bone-
bounded sphere of his brain.
Listen to me, Alan Rackham, said the voice. Wordlessly, yet with
words, from the farthest stretches of the galaxies and still existing in
the core of his own intellect, cold as hoarfrost, hot as berserker's
rage, gentle and persuasive as a doting mother, the voice said to him,
Listen to me.
He would not listen. It was good and evil both together, and if he
listened he would die. Yet it was said he would live. He would live
forever; if time can be measured in terms of endlessness, he would
not die. But he knew he would die. He struggled. The cameras picked
up no hint of the travail. His face was intense and good-humored and
his words were intelligent; and all the while he fought with the voice
and would not listen. He fought it for an hour, and for a month, and
till the end of the world came and beyond, and it spoke to him, fire
and ice in the same words, but without words, and then he began to
listen to it.
At this point six minutes of the telecast had gone by.
You are listening now, said the voice. You are listening, are you not?
I'm listening, God curse you.
I am taking you, Alan Rackham, as a bear takes a lamb, as a man
takes a woman, as a hand takes a glove and the glove takes the
hand.
I understand, curse you. Take me.
I am older than your whole race, and wiser than its cumulative
wisdom, and I come from the stars.
Of course, you come from the stars. You are myself, and I
understand you, friend.
Yes, I am yourself, wiser and stronger and older and beyond you in
every way, and I am you. You are my servant, my slave, and myself.
Certainly, master. Why do you tell me things I have always known?
You are not obeying when you follow me, for you follow yourself, you
who are now me.
You are God, are you not? said Alan in his mind. The Buddhists are
right.
No. Not God. I am the atom and I am the intergalactic void, you and
me and everything right and wrong. Have you learned your lesson?
It is a lesson I knew in the womb.
Now you are mine, said the voice, approving without an iota's loss of
the flame and frost of hatred and love blended flawlessly.
This is a pleasure beyond pleasure, sensation far above sensation.
This is maelstrom descent and flying into the sun. This is the
keenness of sexual transport to the nth power. I live for you.
Now you have it. Never forget it.
Never! swore Alan.
Now forget it.
I have forgotten it.
Now what do you have to do for me?
Whatever it is you wish.
Truly you are mine. Now you have forgotten me.
I have forgotten.
Who am I?
Who are you? asked Alan, perplexed.
Truly you have forgotten. What have you to say?
"So the problem of most importance confronting us then was, how
can we carry enough of this fuel to get us to the moon and back? It
took us seven years to solve that one, but as everyone knows, we
did. Then Van Horne discovered the hitherto unknown properties of
—" he was talking blithely, almost by rote, for this was history-book
stuff; and there had never been any sprite guiding his tongue at all,
nor any voiceless voice in the bitterness of the eternal chasm
between the stars and there was no memory anywhere in his
consciousness of such things, nor any lingering discomfortable feeling
that he had known a thing now forgotten....
CHAPTER III
They were driving out Queens Boulevard toward the colony, and Alan
said, "Why did you leave, Brave? Where'd you go?"
The great Indian spun the wheel for a curve. "Just back to the wall."
"Why?"
"Lights were too bright for my eyes."
Alan stared at him. "You could out-gaze the sun, you pokerfaced liar,
and you know it. Why did you leave?"
Brave glanced over at him. "Caliph, I hate to go on sounding like a
spae-wife, or the Witch of Endor. But never in all my life have I had
such a succession of ominous bodings. You'll think I'm turning raven
in my old age—"
"No, damn it, Brave, I know you can smell danger a mile or a month
away. Go ahead."
"Quoth the raven, then. I didn't feel happy about standing there.
Before we started, it seemed like a good quiet joke. But when we
were there and the lights came on, and the cameras started, I
suddenly had to step back out of sight. I had to, Alan. A couple of my
ghostly ancestors took me by the scruff and hauled me right away
from there."
"That would have made a nice tableau on TV."
Brave chuckled deep in his chest. "Running Lizard and Pony Sees-the-
Sky saving John Kiwanawatiwa from the white man's magic ... I
laugh, viceroy, but I swear it felt like that. The old desert-spawned
blood—the blood that doesn't tame down—boiled up under those
lights and cameras. It pulled the civilized flesh and bones away from
them. It whispered that things were wrong, wrong for an Indian and
wrong for his friend." He stepped on the gas viciously and the MG
spurted forward onto the Union Turnpike like a turpentined hound.
"Alan, I almost yanked you up and walked off with you under my
arm. I didn't like you sitting there in the bath of electrical magic."
"Why didn't you do it?" asked Alan curiously.
"Oh, hell, boss man. It's one thing to have these primeval urges, and
another to forget all your technical training and scientific knowledge
so completely that you'll follow the impulse. Do you bust a window
every time you'd like to?"
"Hmm." Alan was ill at ease. It seemed to him for a moment that
there was something to Brave's instinct, and that he should have
been snatched from those lights. Then he said, "I think it's merely
that someone had a shot at me the other day, and you've fretted
over that till you're seeing assassins behind every chair."
"Maybe. Maybe." Brave rocketed the little car along the dark highway,
across the miles to home, and all the while the tomtoms beat in his
blood and he knew that he should be afraid, that he should be coldly
and sanely afraid of some black hazard soon to come.
Inside the disk, they crouched and went through the tunnel into the
control room. This comprised the entire central portion of the disk;
suspended within the shell, like a small kernel in a large nut, it was
held comparatively steady as the outer husk rocked and rolled and
flipped in its characteristic skipped-rock flight. Alan did not
understand the principle of this near-motionless suspension of the
control room within an erratically weaving hull, although Don Mariner
had tried to explain it to him in patient two-syllable words. It involved
a knowledge of the newest developments in gyroscopics, which the
young fuel expert did not comprehend. Brave had a fairly good idea
of the basic laws involved, but wisely had never tried to beat it into
his friend's head. Alan on fuel, on chemistry, on philosophy, was
superb; Alan on dynamics or any other branch of mechanics was
deplorable.
They looked around the room. Nearly all the equipment was still in its
place, for the clamps that held it during the astonishing speeds the
disk could maintain in flight had held it still in the shattering instant
of the crash. But the entire control board, the panels of instruments
and the wide mirrors that gave the pilot a view of the earth and air
from every angle, had all been shoved back and broken when the
saucer had struck its nose edge into the ground.
Brave walked over to the pilot's seat and stood silently surveying the
mess. At last he said, "Alan."
"Yes?"
"Look here."
Alan looked, and started as though he had been stabbed with a
hypodermic needle. "God ..." he said.
The control board had buckled back against the pilot's chair;
something beyond it, some ponderously heavy piece of machinery in
the space between central room and shell, had knifed through wall
and board as sharp and deadly as the blade of a guillotine. The metal
had sliced the center of the pilot's seat to within six inches of the
back.
No man could have sat there at the moment of the crash, as the pilot
averred he had done.
He would never have lived. He would have been cut in two....
CHAPTER IV
That night Alan and Brave rode across Project Star to the women's
building, where Alan's fiancee, Win Gilmore had a small apartment.
Win—short for Winifred, and God help the man who called her that—
opened the door before the sound of the diacoustic bell had died
away.
The first thing that struck you about Win was color: she looked as
though she had been put together by a Bergdorf Goodman display
artist with a genius for analogous chromas. Her hair was washed in a
pale aquamarine and dusted over with luminous flecks of mauve; it
was drawn back to the crown and clasped there by an abstract spiral
of silver, from which it fell in darkening waves down her naked back.
Her nylon jersey lounging outfit, cut with almost severe simplicity,
was graduated from pink to a deep violet hue. Her finger and toe
nails were lacquered with phosphorescent sapphire, and the lashes of
her blue eyes were dyed with mascara of the same glowing shade.
Her skin was a soft golden color, thanks to half an hour a day under
the sun lamps of the colony's gymnasium.
"How, oh squaw of rainbow brilliance," said Brave, holding up a hand
in grave salute. "I leave this warrior in your keeping, whilst I shuffle
down to the recroom and squander a few bucks on the pinball
machines."
"How, oh mountain that walks. Will you have a slug of Scotch first?"
"The noble red man, pampering his internal workin's, drinks only rum
this week. No thanks, Win. The gambling fever's got me. See you."
Alan closed the door behind him and took Win into his arms. He
kissed her, gently at first, then hard, their lips parted, warm on each
other as their bodies warmed, his hands strong and taut on her back;
he smoothed his fingers down the hollow of her spine, ran them up
into her soft hair. She said against his mouth, "You demolish that
toilsomely-wrought thatch, boy, and I'll demolish you." He laughed
and pushed her away and lit a cigarette, stray flecks of mauve from
her hair glittering on his fingers.
She went to the low cocktail table and picked up an already filled
glass. He took it from her. "Here's atomic dust in yer eye,
Winniefred," he toasted, and drank long and thirstily.
"Whoa, Nellie. Haven't you drunk anything today?"
"Only the dregs of woe," he said lightly, and then his lean face
changed and his eyes looked into a remote place which they did not
like. At once she touched his arm.
"Sit down, Alan." He did so automatically, and she perched tailor-
fashion on the edge of the couch beside him. "What's the matter?"
"I wish I knew."
"Just the blues? You been skipping meals? That always makes you
ethereal and moody. I'd as soon have Unquote with a toothache
around the place as you after you've missed your lunch."
"No, not the blues. Big trouble, sweetheart, that's been exploding
right and left with no rhyme to it. I've thought so much about it in
the last few hours that I doubt if I can even talk about it now."
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