Mr. Simpson (you can’t think I will call him O.J.) had hitherto barbarically beaten and terrorized Nicole Brown Simpson – bodybuilding and apparent vacuity not being mitigating factors in her fearful alarm or exculpatory factors in his demented actions – and he had, as a consequence, left behind two innocent children.
My repugnance was indistinguishable from a kind of fever: It was nausea and revulsion; like any illness, it became itself the focus of intense interest to me, so that finally my questions were about myself and not – perhaps I should be embarrassed to admit – about Mr. Simpson or even about his victims, lying (in my forever-stained imagination) in a sludgy river of blood.
May I say, without incurring wrath, that I didn’t like her face? Continue reading White AND Blonde? Exercise SOME Control Man!