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
“We can’t just stand around arguing about how it happened, we have to do something—” James started, but Alexander cut him off.
“Look, I know you have a pathological need to play the hero, but right now you need to stop and ask yourself if that’s really what’s best for everyone.”
“And we’re going to what, leap in and save him? All the king’s horses and all the king’s men? Shut up and think, for one fucking minute!”
The story has changed; we both feel it. It happens just like it did ten years ago: we find Richard in the water and we know nothing will ever be the same.
As I tell the story to Colborne, guilt wriggles, wormlike, in the pit of my stomach. Our relationship was a point of significant interest, but Meredith refused to testify at my trial, stubbornly insisting that she didn’t remember what everyone wanted to know. She spent a few weeks being hounded by press people, which proved to be too much attention even for her. After I was convicted she went back to the Manhattan apartment and, for a month or so, didn’t come out. (Her brother Caleb made the news before she did, when he broke a paparazzo’s jaw with his briefcase. After that, the vultures lost interest, and I thought of Caleb more fondly.)
Meredith did eventually make her way to TV—she stars now in some legal drama loosely based on the Henry VI cycle. It was popular in prison, not because of its Shakespearean source material, but because she spends a lot of time on the show lounging around in slinky nightgowns that show off her figure. She came to visit me—only once—and when the rumor that I’d had some sort of affair with her surfaced, it won me unprecedented respect among the other inmates. If pressed for details I told them only what could be found on the Internet or was obvious: that she was a natural redhead, had a small birthmark on her hip, wasn’t shy about sex. The more intimate truths I kept to myself: that our lovemaking was as sweet as it was savage; that despite her normally foul mouth the only noise she ever made in bed was to murmur “Oh God, Oliver” in my ear; that we might have even loved each other, for a minute or two.
“Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true,” I say.
“I thought they would have beaten that bullshit out of you in prison."
“That bullshit is all that kept me going.” One thing I’m sure Colborne will never understand is that I need language to live, like food—lexemes and morphemes and morsels of meaning nourish me with the knowledge that, yes, there is a word for this. Someone else has felt it before.
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened? No performance. No poetics.”
“For us, everything was a performance.” A small, private smile catches me off guard and I glance down, hoping he won’t see it. “Everything poetic.”