Raven
@Raveneanias
Kendi halinde kendince kitaplarına âşık bir okurum sadece
Edmond Jabes'in dediği gibi: Umut belki de gelecek sayfadadır. Kapatma kitabı.
In libris libertas
Colborne made a soft, impatient sound. I eased forward slowly until I could see him again, shaking his head, tongue pinched between his teeth. “These kids,” he said. “The fourth-years. I don’t trust them.”
“Why not?”
“They’re a bunch of fucking actors,” Colborne said. “They could all be lying through their teeth, and how would we know?”
Bu yaz yanınızdan ayırmak istemeyeceğiniz kitapları sizin için bir araya getirdik.
💬 Siz olsanız bu listeden hangisiyle başlardınız?
The mattress moved under him again. He might have rolled over to face me, but it was too dark to see. “I think you understand it perfectly. Nothing makes sense to him either. His whole world is falling apart, and once he realizes he can’t stop it or fix it or change it, there’s only one thing left to do.”
My eyes adjusted slowly, maddeningly. “What’s that?”
His shadow shrugged in the gloom. “Absolve yourself. Blame it on fate.”
Suddenly the old story—the water and the gray morning and James’s remark, It would take more than that—was too familiar, too close for comfort to more recent memories. He averted his eyes and I knew we were still thinking the same thing. We climbed into bed, pushed the pillows around, and pretended to get comfortable in disconcerted silence. I lay on my back, dismayed that the five or six inches of space between us suddenly felt like a hundred miles. My petty fears from the memorial service were confirmed—death wasn’t going to stop Richard tormenting us.
I sat gingerly on the near edge of the bed and found myself thinking, unexpectedly, of the summer we’d spent in California—taking turns behind the wheel of the old BMW that had once belonged to James’s father, driving all the way up the coast to some gray, fog-blurred beach where we got drunk on white wine, swam naked, and fell asleep in the sand.
“Do you remember that night in Del Norte,” I said, “when we passed out on the beach—”
“And when we woke up in the morning all our clothes were gone?”
He said it so readily that he must have been thinking of it, too. I almost laughed and turned to find him pulling back the comforter, eyes brighter than they’d been before.
My own room was less overtly deficient—over the years I’d insulated myself from the rest of the house (the rest of the neighborhood, the rest of Ohio) with layers of ink and paper and poetry, like a squirrel lining a nest. James followed me in and stood looking around with obvious curiosity as I shut the door. The room seemed, for the first time, small.