This makes you engage with deep attention since you need to focus on the game and the answers you are giving. This is different from reading a short story because the ending this story can vary depending on what you put, but with a short story the ending is somewhat already set. With Galatea the only command I did was listen to what was going around and the rest of the time I asked her questions. She responded to the questions I asked. I asked about life, love, death and family. Family was the only question she did not answer. In the end I didn’t get her to turn around.

On the pedestal is Galatea.


“Hello,” you say — and stop. What would you say next? ‘I’m a famous critic, be on your best behavior’? There’s no etiquette established; and then it strikes you as strange that you should bother to be concerned.

Fortunately, the little awkwardness is lost on her. “Good of you not to walk away again,” she replies.


From beyond the corner comes a trill of laughter, high and improbable.

You become aware of her breathing — the slight expansion of her ribs, the soft exhalation — natural, and yet somehow studied.   “Ah — by the way,” she says, in a way that utterly fails to be casual, “have you seen the artist out there? — My artist, that is.”

“No, I don’t think so. What does your artist look like?”

“Black hair,” she says, and stops… “Never mind. He’s not here. He wouldn’t have come.”

>A who is he

You can’t form your question into words.

>A who

You can’t form your question into words.


What do you want to a?


You can’t form your question into words.

>A name of man

You can’t form your question into words.

>A about her


“Read the placard,” she says. “That’s what it’s there for, after all.”


What do you want to read?

>R placard

You can’t see any such thing.

>A name

You can’t form your question into words.

>A age

You can’t form your question into words.


That’s not a verb I recognize.

>A life

“What do you know about life?” you ask her. (General questions: you can almost always find ones that haven’t been anticipated.)

“Nothing,” she says, “except what I saw of his; and that seldom made any sense to me. He told me that people are born, and that they die, and that there are stages in between– childhood, adolescence… I asked him why he didn’t carve me as a child so that I could grow up.” There’s a pregnant pause. “I never heard him laugh so hard as when I asked him that. And he said that I certainly had the brain of a child.”

The air stirs, cool on your cheek.

>A love

“What do you know about love?” (As long as you’re catechizing her, you might as well be thorough.)

“That it makes people behave like idiots,” she replies harshly. “That it takes more than it gives.”

>A Death

A pause. “Mine? Or yours?”

Before you can answer, she lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “It doesn’t matter which you mean, since I know nothing about either. You will go your way when the time comes; and I– Who can die who is not alive?”

>A Family

It’s unlikely that Galatea would have anything to say about the relatives.


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