She watches the wipers wagging back and forth. ‘A better explanation,’ she says, ‘is that I have not told you why, or dare not tell you. When I think of the words, they seem so outrageous that they are best spoken into a pillow or a hole in the ground, like King Midas.’
‘I don’t follow. What is it you can’t say?’.
‘It’s that I no longer know where I am. I seem to move around perfectly easily among people, to have perfectly normal relations with them. Is it possible, I aky myself, that all of them are participants in a crime of stupefying proportions. Am I fantasizing it all? I must be mad! Yet every day I see the evidences. The very people I suspect produce the evidence, exhibit it, offer it to me. Corpses. Fragments of corpses that they have bought for money.
‘It is as if I were to visit friends, and to make some polite remark about the lamp in their living room, and they were to say. “Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it? Polish-jewish skin it’s made of, we find that’s best, the skins of young Polish-Jewish virgins.” And then I go to the bahtroom and the soap wrappers say “Treblinka - 100% human stearate.” Am I dreaming, I say to myself? What kind of house is this?
‘Yet I’m not dreaming. I look into your eyes, into Norma’s, into the children’s, and I see only kindness, human kindness. Calm down, I tell myself, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. This is life. Everyone else comes to terms with it, why can’t you? Why can’t you?
She turns on him a tearful face. What does she want, he thinks? Does shes want me to answer her question for her?

6 months ago  /  2 notes  /  Source: explicadinho