"Koja-LadyLazarus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Koja Kathe)

thought she heard her daughter sigh in the midst of a dream. Little girls are
born with dreams, cuffed needs inside like little eggs waiting to drop, fall fat
like fruit, like the seeds of babies; but they don't need them. What they need
are weapons, armies; they need to be armies, they need to be able to fight.
Little boys are taught how to do that; it is a knowledge assumed as necessary as
knowing how to point your penis when you piss. team how to fight, hit, throw
stones, black stones like pennies on her eyes, she would lie m a grave like a
trundle bed and who would care then? Not him.

Her hand on the paper like automatic writing, like using the planchette, its
little needle the pointy nose of some feared pet, grave weasel, ferreting out
the damned: you, and you. And you, especially; you didn't think we would forget
you. She had been writing, trying to write since midnight, since two; she had
talked to her neighbor, his face swarming out of the light belowstairs like some
bewildered god, a modern god left without magic in the normal miracle of
electricity. She had wanted to borrow some stamps; he had asked her if she was
all right: "You aren't really well, are you?" Are you? Did he see somewhere in
her face the shadow of the stones, did he see black spots left behind, little
cancerous spores like pits left burned by feet made of acid, what did he see?
There on the paper before her, the word, spore; or was it spoor? How cold it was
in here, it was hard to see the paper, harder still to hold the pen. I'm fine,
she had said; don't call the doctor, I'm fine.

So many doctors; this new one was not bad, he seemed to understand, so many
pressures on her and he seemed to understand: work, and the children; the
paralytic cold. Of her other difficulties, of her husband and that woman, he was
sympathetic, he was not unkind. Again and again he reminded her of her children,
of her friends, her mother and brother, the people who cared: like an army of
love, massed around her to give her strength. She needed strength, now more than
ever; given at times to anger but at heart she was not a fighter; better,
perhaps, if she had been. Little girl dreams; and flung stones; it was cold
enough to freeze stones in here, sacks of ice split open to show like a pearl
the motionless heart.

She had always hated the cold. Little girl days, watching the ocean; the spray
like the sparkle of weapons, tips of arrows shining in the sun. Her dead father
underground, no light for him. She felt her hand move across the paper, felt the
pen as if it were another finger, sweet and special deformity; it was her
talent, her genius, it was what allowed her to write. Did everyone have
something like that, some rich handicap that in paradox freed its host? Her
husband, what was his deformity? A penis that hissed like a snake, a fat red
snake with one hot eye? and hers, what was hers, patent-leather bitch with her
heavy scent and her voice like a man's, what did she have that made her special?
Besides him?

Her hand distracting moving again and she read the line aloud to herself like
honey on the tongue: read it again but softly, she did not want to wake the
children, wake her neighbor below stairs; he needed his sleep. She needed sleep,
too, but she needed this more.