Status Updates From De spijker

‘Beijing, I said—trying to memorise everything—but all I saw was just another unremarkable northern city. Murky grey sky cut into squares—electric wires. Blockish old brick buildings w/ pigeons—roads—wider than—Jinan—A woman cycled past—a head of jade-green celery in her bike basket—old guys sat by the wall playing chess—The fragrance—frying garlic—I decided I wouldn’t tell them a single thing about where you’d gone’

Как же мне нравится проза. В очередной раз убеждаюсь,что готова читать практически о чем угодно, если написано хорошо.

‘You’re right that I made no effort to fit in—This was—supposed to be temporary—I had no expectations/desires for my situation—I’d look at your faces & wonder how we’d become friends—I was completely out of control for those two years—running wild. Looking back—it might have been the happiest time of my life—though I can’t remember how that actually felt. Memory is selective—my memory would rather cling to suffering’

‘—it seeped into the texture of your life. No matter what form it takes—I believe it is still present—and like me, you can’t ignore it. Let’s talk. Yes, let’s talk—I don’t know why I did what I did. Maybe because everything seemed out of my hands and the only thing I could choose was how to end this—After that—You’d vanished cleanly from our lives—like my hopes. I thought this was your way of telling me you agreed—’

'This life that wasn’t mine would—like a dandelion—puffed into blossom wherever the wind took it. Without the encumbrance of roots—grown in its own manner—This ancient country was under a thick layer of dust & leaving would feel like being cleansed. I was drawn to this freedom even if it came streaked with suffering—I recognised you. Cheng Gong—I said—You—opened your eyes—as if you’d dozed off—waiting so long for me'

“This life that wasn’t mine would—like a dandelion—puffed into blossom wherever the wind took it. Without the encumbrance of roots—grown in its own manner—This ancient country was under a thick layer of dust & leaving would feel like being cleansed. I was drawn to this freedom even if it came streaked with suffering—I recognised you. Cheng Gong—I said—You—opened your eyes—as if you’d dozed off—waiting so long for me”

‘—reading—Grandpa’s—classics—I chose Wuthering Heights. Then I happened to look up & there they were—faces pressed to the window. A boy and a girl—Though there was no resemblance, for some reason I was reminded—if I hadn’t left—would I be—different person now? The night before—I was—watching a doc about Chinese soldiers who’d stayed in Myanmar—opening dry goods stores—In a foreign land—even their aging was tentative’

finally remembered that i liked this book so much because TT it was pure pain TTTT i hate cheng gong so much why did he do that TTTT is it the frustration from watching over his comatose grandpa TTTT is it a projection from loathing for his own feeble existence TT is it to get a sense of power and control after going through so much as a 12 yo TTTT but what a meanie TTTT

C'est un abandon. J'en peux plus. Je m'en fiche royalement des histoires des deux personnages principaux. Une météorite pourrait s'écroulerait que je serai un peu contente

Нравятся форма написания и слог автора (и переводчика), приятно читать. Очень личные истории двух бывших друзей детства с непростой судьбой.