Цитаты из книги Our Wives Under The Sea

When you stop underreacting, the horror is unique because it is,unfortunately, endless.

Grief is selfish: we cry for ourselves without the person we have lost far more than we cry for the person.

It is easier, I guess, to believe that life is inexhaustible. Not so much that its opportunities are vast or that one’s personal dreams can be reached at any age or season, but rather to believe that every dull or daily thing you do will happen again any number of times over. To stamp a limit on even the most tedious of things – the number of times you have left to buy a coffee, the number of times you will defrost the fridge – is to acknowledge reality in a way that amounts to torture.

What persists after this is only air and water and me between them, not quite either and with one foot straining for the sand.

We had combined our books, our spices, mixed up my table salt with Leah’s jars of nutmeg and rosemary and herbs de Provence.

It’s not grief, one woman posted, it’s more like a haunting.

The problem with relationships between women is that neither one of you is automatically the wronged party, which frankly takes a lot of the fun out of an argument.

Every couple, I think, enjoys its own mythology, recollections like notecards to guide you round an exhibition: Fig. A. Portrait of the couple dancing at a colleague’s Catholic wedding. Fig. B. Charcoal sketch of the couple fighting over who said what at a cokey dinner with acquaintances (note fine lines beneath completed sketch, indicating places where the artist has repeatedly erased and redrawn). Things are easy enough to recall, in isolation.

I understand that she needs more salt, but I’m running low and I don’t want to leave her.

“Do people keep trying to bring you coffee?” the woman across from me asks, when she returns from the counter bearing two cups of tea and a slice of depressed-looking apple cake.

There was no sound at all, in fact, except for Jelka talking, asking aloud what it was, what I thought was talking to her through the hatch.

“A genie,” I say, “an ice-cream scoop. Was the Rorschach test not widely discredited around the mid-sixties? An enchilada.”
“What I see,” Leah says, looking hard at each shape, “is an eye, and an eye and an eye and an eye and an eye.”

One night, I dreamed a congregation: fifty women in formal hats declaring themselves the acolytes of the Church of the Blessed Sacrament of Our Wives Under the Sea.

The problem isn’t that she went away, it’s that nothing about her going away felt normal. It isn’t that her being back is difficult, it’s that I’m not convinced she’s really back at all.

We’d go to the lido in the mornings and sit in the cafe afterwards, damp in our clothes and eating bacon sandwiches and Leah fishing ice out of her Diet Coke.

If you’ve got breath enough to scream, as my father said, you’re not drowning, and so I held my breath and thought about screaming and imagined the ocean coming to an end.

Her dress was white and clung to her like sealskin. She didn’t often wear dresses, though when she did it always seemed she chose the ones that looked like something else: cocoons and folded paper, carapaces, wetsuits, wings.

The deep sea is dark, particularly when the lights on your submersible craft have cut out for reasons unknown.

I wished, with a vehemence which felt vaguely misplaced, that I had thought to bring a deck of cards with me.