Wie im Fieber habe ich in den letzten 24 Stunden The God of Small Things durchgelesen, um nicht bei meiner eigenen Challenge zu verlieren und Abends noch eine Rezension schreiben zu können. Nur um zu erkennen, dass dieses Buch wirklich nicht dazu gemacht ist, es mal eben schnell zu rezensieren.
Um es zu zitieren dagegen – absolut! Deshalb seit langer Zeit mal wieder ein Favorite Quotes-Post aus einem Buch, dessen Sprache oft tatsächlich so „hauntingly wonderful“ ist, wie der Klappentext es verspricht.
„He left behind a Hole in the Universe through which darkness poured like liquid tar.“
In the angry quietness (…) Ammu slammed the door and walked to her room, shoulders shining. Leaving everybody to wonder where she had learned her affrontery from.
And truth be told, it was no small wondering matter.
Because Ammu had not had the kind of educaion, nor read the sorts of books, nor met the sorts of people, that might have influenced her to think the way she did.
She was just that sort of animal.
It simply did not occur to her that she had hurt him as deeply as she had, because she still thought of herself as an ordinary woman and him as an extraordinary man.
„He greeted them with the utmost courtesy. He addressed them all as Kochamma and gave them fresh coconut water to drink. He chatted to them about the weather (…) It is only now, these years later, that Rahel with adult hindsight recognized the sweetness of that gesture. A grown man entertaining three (children), treating them like real ladies. Instinctively colluding in the conspiracy of their fiction, taking care not to decimate it with adult carelessness. Or affection.
It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain.“
When Ammu was really angry she sad jolly well. Jolly well was a deeply well with larving dead people in it.
„If you´re happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count?“ Estha asked.
„Does what count?“
„The happiness – does it count?“
She knew exactly what he meant, her son with his spoiled puff.
Because the truth is, that only what counts, counts.
The simple, unswerving wisdom of children.
She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for him was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.
They fretted over his frailty. His smallness. The adequacy of his camouflage. His seemingly self-destructive pride. They grew to love his eclectic taste. His shambling dignity.
They chose him because they knew that they had to put their faith in fragility. Stick to smallness. Each time they parted, they extracted only one small promise from each other.