Βιβλία σαν το «Yesteryear»

Not that there would be anything wrong: sex work is legitimate work, and people who engage in it are just as deserving of respect as ballerinas, or firefighters, or hedge fund managers. But ten months ago, when I graduated with a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from Northeastern, I figured that by now I’d have a reasonably remunerated academic position. I did not imagine that at twenty-seven I’d be paying my water bill by helping adult men pretend that they have dating lives. And yet here I am, fake-girlfriending my way through my student loans.

There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece, removed thither from the front room after Mrs. Osborne’s death—George was on a pony, the elder sister holding him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by her mother’s hand; all with red cheeks and large red mouths, simpering on each other in the approved family-portrait manner. The mother lay underground now, long since forgotten—the sisters and brother had a hundred different interests of their own, and, familiar still, were utterly estranged from each other. Some few score of years afterwards, when all the parties represented are grown old, what bitter satire there is in those flaunting childish family-portraits, with their farce of sentiment and smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and self-satisfied. Osborne’s own state portrait, with that of his great silver inkstand and armchair, had taken the place of honour in the dining-room, vacated by the family-piece.

If you’re telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don’t complain. Be forgiving. If possible, make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don’t even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

Όμως εκείνη άρχισε να διαβάζει από τριών ετών και τώρα, κοντεύοντας τα έξι πια, είχε τελειώσει σχεδόν όλον τον Ντίκενς. Τέτοιο παιδί ήταν η Μάντλεν, ένα παιδί που μπορούσε να σιγομουρμουρίσει κάποιο κονσέρτο του Μπαχ αλλά δεν μπορούσε να δέσει τα κορδόνια του, που μπορούσε να εξηγήσει την περιστροφή της Γης αλλά μπερδευόταν στην τρίλιζα. Και αυτό ήταν το πρόβλημα. Διότι, ενώ οι μουσι­ κές ιδιοφυΐες πάντα αναγνωρίζονται, δεν ισχύει το ίδιο για τους πρώιμους αναγνώστες. Κάτι που συμβαίνει επειδή οι πρώιμοι αναγνώστες είναι απλώς καλοί σε κάτι στο οποίο τελικά θα γίνουν καλοί και όλοι οι υπόλοιποι. Συνεπώς η πρωτιά τους δεν θεωρείται ξεχωριστή, απλώς ενοχλητική. Και αυτό η Μάντλεν το αντιλαμβανόταν.

Either way, I’d fully intended to read the letter. I’d just been waiting for the right time, hoping the worst of my anger would settle and those last words from Dad would be comforting. Instead, a full year had passed and the dread I felt at the thought of opening the envelope grew every day. It was so unfair, that he should get the last word and I’d have no way to reply. To scream or cry or demand more answers. Once I’d opened it, there’d be no going back. That would be it. The final goodbye.

DOES SUCH a thing as “the fatal flaw,” that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.