"Though he thought of himself as unique, and had a habit of glancing into mirrors from the side as if hoping to confirm his uniqueness-was it a jaunty quirky arrangement of features, was it an unconscious scowl, or an especially "intelligent" look about the eyes-he looked like so many men, I am amused and baffled by him: what did he see, or imagine he saw, when he studied his reflection? A large mild hopeful face, blunt boned. A coarse but not unattractive complexion. Dark hair, graying unevenly, wavy and still thick-which pleased his vanity, of course...
...His nose was perhaps his least attractive feature, being somewhat large, and coarse-pored; and his nostrils appeared to be, at times, unnaturally wide and dark (Edwin had an unconscious habit of breathing deeply and sharply through his nose, causing his nostrils to flare, when he was thinking stern thoughts. And at such times the creases in his forehead deepened alarmingly.)
...He played handball. And squash. And for a while in his mid-thirties forced himself to rise early, at dawn, and go swimming at a YMCA near his office-but within a few months he lost interest in the sessions, which had for him the queer diffused hallucinatory nature of a dream gone wrong. Half-naked, in fact nearly naked, in a pool of bright riotous water that stank, and stung the eyes, splashing about, groping about, in the company of other nearly naked men, gasping for air, panting, unable to stop himself from imagining a fish-slender adolescent self swimming effortlessly before him, all mocking elbows and toes-no, the sessions wearied him, and alarmed him, since they caused him to feel his age. Sometimes he played golf, but he could not help thinking that it was a waste of time. And the handball and squash-well, that was a waste of time too."
-Cybele, pp 14-15, by Joyce Carol Oates
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