Цитаты из книги «Поправки», страница 6

добивался все новых премий, грантов, академических приглашений, копил валюту университетского мира

вся его жизнь, семь десятилетий неволи

He felt surrounded, imprisoned, by disapproving women.

There was, of course, one obvious way of breaking free: he could say yes instead of no to one of the dozen secretaries and female pedestrians and sales clerks who in any given week took note of his height and his schist-gray hair, his calfskin jacket and his French mountaineering pants, and looked him in the eye as if to say The key’s under the doormat. But there was still no pussy on earth he’d rather lick, no hair he’d rather gather in his fist like a golden silk bellpull, no gaze with which he’d rather lock his own at climax, than Caroline’s. The only guaranteed result of having an affair would be to add yet another disapproving woman to his life.

Earlier in the day, while killing some hours by circling in blue ballpoint ink every uppercase M in the front section of a month-old New York Times, Chip had concluded that he was behaving like a depressed person. Now, as his telephone began to ring, it occurred to him that a depressed person ought to continue staring at the TV and ignore the ringing—ought to light another cigarette and, with no trace of emotional affect, watch another cartoon while his machine took whoever’s message.

That his impulse, instead, was to jump to his feet and answer the phone—that he could so casually betray the arduous wasting of a day—cast doubt on the authenticity of his suffering. He felt as if he lacked the ability to lose all volition and connection with reality the way depressed people did in books and movies. It seemed to him, as he silenced the TV and hurried into his kitchen, that he was failing even at the miserable task of falling properly apart.

How he hated and how he loved the lilt in her voice, the bounce in her step, the serenity of her amour propre! She got to be her and he didn’t. And he could see that he was ruined—that he didn’t like her but would miss her disastrously.

When he returned to the living room, he found her stretched out in the chaise wearing only the pants half of her plaid polyester leisure suit. In the dim light she could have been a hairless, heavy-titted man. Chip, who much preferred queer theory to queer practice, basically hated the suit and wished she hadn't worn it.

Chip took a deep breath, because this hurt. “Great, OK,” he said. “Thank you for your opinion.”

“As if you care about my opinion,” Melissa said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As if you care about any of our opinions unless they’re the same as yours.”

“This is not about opinions,” Chip said. “This is about learning to apply critical methods to textual artifacts. Which is what I’m here to teach you.”

“I don’t think it is, though,” Melissa said. “I think you’re here to teach us to hate the same things you hate."

Впечатления настолько первичные, что либо сохранятся на всю жизнь, либо тут же изгладятся. Мозг способен воспринять лишь ограниченное количество информации, потом он утрачивает способность расшифровывать ее, распределять в должной связи и порядке.

– Не понимаешь, что ли? – возмутилась Дениз. – Я ненавижу этот дом. Ненавижу этот город. Ненавижу свою семью. Весь этот домашний уют. Я хочу уехать. Я плохая. А когда притворяюсь хорошей, становится еще хуже.

– Я думаю, ты очень хорошая, – возразила Робин.

– Я об тебя ноги вытираю. Ты не заметила?

– Это оттого, что ты так несчастна.

Вкус самочинного страдания, назло загубленного вечера наполнял его странным удовлетворением. Окружающие утратили реальность, не могли нести ответственность за переживания Чипа. Он остался наедине со своим отказом. И подобно жалости к себе, подобно крови, наполняющей рот после удаления зуба, – ты чувствуешь ее соленый металлический вкус, глотаешь ее, смакуешь, – отказ тоже имел собственную консистенцию, собственный вкус.