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244 pages, Paperback
First published January 24, 2017
True horror can prove so quiet that one almost believes nothing is happening.
You wake up one morning without knowing that disaster will take place that day. You do everything right, you plan ahead, chart the course, ask the necessary questions, examine the situation from all sides. You do what parents are expected to do, and yet things still break down, they come undone, they slip away, an eight-year-old slips aways and dies. There is no destiny at play. This death comes at the end of a string of decisions small and large, steps taken or not, resolutions made too long ago to leave visible traces, and behavioral patterns that, like canyons in forsaken lands, sediment so slowly that they seem eternal.
The death of one’s child, of an eight-year-old even is as infinitely sad [in Belarus] as it is elsewhere. But it finds its place within a universe in which stability, control, and justice are not rights or expectations but aspirations perhaps even delusions, In the universe, bereaved parents are not culpable in crimes against nature or civilization. They do not have to allay the fears of others or their own by huddling in underground bunkers.
Owen went so fast and violently, Berl so slowly and deliberately—in slow motion—almost—that, in both cases, it was impossible to register what was happening until it was over.
Worlds can come undone in infinitesimal increments.
