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13 pages, Audible Audio
First published September 1, 2021
She had wondered how her tendons and musculature would function. She thought she could feel the roll of polished stone in stony cup as she moved her pelvis and hips, raised her knees, and swung her rigid arms.... She noticed that her sense of smell had changed, and was sharper. She could smell the rain in the thick cloud blanket. [...] Big drops splashed on her sharp nose; she licked them from stiffening lips between crystalline teeth, with a still flexible tongue tip, and tasted skywater, mineral and delicious. She stood there and let the thick streams of water run over her body and down inside her flimsy garments, streaking her carnelian nipples and adamantine wrists. The lightening came in sheets of metal sheen. The thunder crashed in the sky and the surface of the woman crackled and creaked in sympathy. (pp.367-68)The eighteen stories span Byatt's career: the earliest from 1982, the latest from 2013. There are artists and models, architects and visionaries, teachers and students; for me, the stories of other worlds ("Cold") and of creatures from other worlds who appear in our own ("A Lamia in the Cévennes," "The Narrow Jet") are the most satisfying. I advise savoring their brilliance slowly, one at a time!
Any two people may be talking to each other, at any moment, in a civilised way about something trivial, or something, even, complex and delicate. And inside each of the two there runs a kind of dark river of unconnected thought, of secret fear, or violence, or bliss, hoped-for-or-lost, which keeps pace with the flow of talk and is neither seen nor heard. And at times, one or both of the two will catch sight or sound of this movement, in himself, or herself, or, more rarely, in the other. And it is like the quick slip of a waterfall into a pool, like a drop into darkness. The pace changes, the weight of the air, though the talk may run smoothly onwards without a ripple or quiver.
Gerda Himmelblau is back in the knot of quiet terror which has grown in her private self like a cancer over the last few years. (from 'The Chinese Lobster', in Medusa's Ankles, p.149)