读过 Olive Kitteridge
Maybe because she hated the scared part of herlself - this was just a fleeting thought; there was a contest within her, revulsion and tentative desire. It was the sudden memory of Jane Houlton in the waiting room that caused Olive to walk to the bed - the freedom of that ordinary banter, because Jack, in the doctor's office, had needed her, had given her a place in the world.
His blue eyes were watching ehr now; she saw in them the vulnerability, the invitation, the fear, as she sat down quietly, placed her open hand on his chest, felt the thump, thump of his heart, which would someday stop, as all hearts do. But there was no someday now, there was only the silence of this sunny room. They were here, and her body - old, big, sagging - felt straight-out desire for his. That she had not loved henry this way for many years before he died saddened her enough to make her close her eyes.
What young people didn't know. They did not know that lumpy, aged, and wrinkled bodies were as needy as their own young, firm ones, that love was not to be tossed away carelessly, as if it were a tart on a platter with other that got passed arounda gain. No, if love was available, one chose it, or didn't choose it. And if her platter had been full with the goodness of Henry and she had found it burdensome, had flickered it off crumbs at a time. It was because she had not known what one should know: that day after day was unconsciously squandered.
And so, if this man next to her now was not a man she would have chosen before this time, what did it matter? He most likely wouldn't have chosen her either. But ehre they were, and Olive pictured two slices of Swiss cheese pressed together, such holes they brought to this union - what pieces life took out of you.
Her eyes were closed, and throughout her tired self swept waves of gratitude - and regret. She pictured the sunny room, the sun-washed wall, the babyberry outside. It baffled her, the world. She did not want to leave it yet.引自 River