Βιβλία σαν το «The House on Hope Street»

Sometimes it’s exhausting for me to simply walk into the house. I try and calm myself, remember that I’ve lived alone before. Sleeping by myself didn’t kill me then and will not kill me now. But this what loss has taught me of love. Our house isn’t simply empty, our home has been emptied. Love makes a place in your life, it makes a place for itself in your bed. Invisibly, it makes a place in your body, rerouting all your blood vessels, throbbing right alongside your heart. When it’s gone, nothing is whole again.

I switched to long, even hops. It felt like slow motion, but it was the best way to move with all that weight. My helmet’s heads-up display said the airlock was fifty-two meters away. I glanced at my arm readouts. My oxygen reserve plummeted while I watched. So I stopped watching.

I hated when someone told me to smile, as if a smile of mine belonged to them and not to me.

The clerical work is par for the course. “Keep on file in numerical order” means throw in wastebasket. You’ll soon learn the language. “Let it be a challenge to you” means you’re stuck with it; “interpersonal relationships” is a fight between kids; “ancillary civic agencies for supportive discipline” means call the cops; “Language Arts Dept.” is the English office; “literature based on child’s reading level and experiential background” means that’s all they’ve got in the Book Room; “non-academic-minded” is a delinquent; and “It has come to my attention” means you’re in trouble.

Ο Σπένσερ έβαλε τα πιάτα στο πλυντήριο. Τη Δευτέρα το πρωί το άνοιξα και κοίταξα τα τρία καθαρά πιάτα, στοιβαγμένα με τάξη και η αυτο-ανάκριση άρχισε. Τα «παιδιά» ήταν εδώ χθες, την Κυριακή, ως συνήθως. Πού είναι το τέταρτο πιάτο; Έσπασε; Τα σπασμένα κομμάτια ενός μπλε και άσπρου πιάτου πράγματι αιωρήθηκαν μπροστά μου σαν νοερή εικόνα. Γιατί δεν θυμάμαι; Έκανα τις ερωτήσεις αυτές στον εαυτό μου με απόλυτη σοβαρότητα. Η απορία μου είχε τις ρίζες της στη συνήθεια, και χρειάστηκε να περάσει τουλάχιστον ένα λεπτό για να ξαναβρώ τον προσανατολισμό μου. Αν με είχε ρωτήσει κανείς «Έχει πεθάνει ο σύζυγός σου;» αυτομάτως θα είχα απαντήσει ναι. Το σάστισμά μου με το πιάτο που έλειπε δεν είχε καμία σχέση με τούτη τη βεβαιότητα.

He studied the darkness up and down Adams Street, then turned and admired his house. Two homes in Ford County were on the National Register of Historic Places, and Jake Brigance owned one of them. Although it was heavily mortgaged, he was proud of it nonetheless. It was a nineteenth-century Victorian built by a retired railroad man who died on the first Christmas Eve he spent in his new home. The facade was a huge, centered gable with hipped roof over a wide, inset front porch. Under the gable a small portico covered with bargeboard hung gently over the porch. The five supporting pillars were round and painted white and slate blue. Each column bore a handmade floral carving, each with a different flower—daffodils, irises, and sunflowers. The railing between the pillars was filled with lavish lacework.