Sometimes, these mornings in the study, Natalie was uncertain whether or not to laugh at her father’s statements. It was difficult, usually, to tell if his remark was a joke because it was a point of conduct with him not to laugh at his own jokes, and with herself the only audience Natalie had only her own reactions to depend on. She was serious this time, because, although her father’s expectant air seemed to indicate that this had been a joke, his pointing out that she had seventeen years behind her had given her a sudden sense of the immensity of time; seventeen years was a very long time to have been alive, if you took it into proportion by the thought that in seventeen years more—or as long as she had wasted being a child, and a small girl, silly and probably playing—she would be thirty-four, and old. Married, probably. Perhaps—and the thought was nauseating—senselessly afflicted with children of her own. Worn, and tired. She brought herself away from the disagreebly clinging thought by her usual method—imagining the sweet sharp sensation of being burned alive—and turned expectantly to her father.
(da Hangsaman, Shirley Jackson)
Me lo sono trovato ovunque nel feed reader e non ho saputo resistere. In più la copertina di questa nuova edizione è bellissima (e quella dell’edizione UK in arrivo a dicembre non è da meno).
Per ora è acuto e inquietante – comprensibile, visto che si parla di Shirley Jackson –. In ogni caso, per un’idea più precisa vi rimando a un articolo di The Rumpus di questo luglio.