NOW, at the age of fifty-nine, sadness flows through every cell of her body, yet leaves her curiously untouched. She knows how memory gets smoothed down with time, everything flattened by the iron of acceptance and rejection - it comes to the same thing, she thinks. This sorrowing of hers has limits, just as there's a limit to how tangled she'll let her hair get or how much dust she'll allow to pile up on her dressing table. That's Daisy for you. Daisy's resignation belongs to the phylum of exhaustion, the problem of how to get through a thousand ordinary days. Or, to be more accurate, ten thousand such days.