Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Sentence of the week

From Simon Gray’s last diary, Coda, which begins on the day he has been told that his lung cancer is terminal:
It’s like this, at least in my imagination – you come back home one evening, the house is dark, as you expect it to be, you switch on a light, an extra light, one you didn’t know you had, and unexpectedly your eye goes to a corner of the room that you’ve never seen illuminated before, and in it is crouching a grinning man holding a knife – and then the light goes off, normal lighting is resumed, there is no one in the corner as far as you can see, but you know that if the light came on again you would see him again, see him in more detail, the teeth, one particular and prominent tooth, the completely confident intent in the eyes, the compactness, wholeness, distinctive of his intent to murder you – and you can’t get out of your house, which was once your protection and the most comforting place in the world – it is now your prison, inhabited by you and the creature in the corner, who might also be slipping into other rooms, to catch you there, or there, or there – in his own good time.
He died on 8 August 2008.

No comments: