Sunday, August 07, 2016



"The ship that took me to America rode, for a while, over the same waters into which Edward's body had been thrown. I felt better once we got out into the Atlantic. Not that I had forgotten him, but my guilt had become manageable. The human capacity for pain being limited, you find you can’t inflict nearly so much on yourself as you can on someone else (or as someone else can on you). Thus you run away from the pain inflicters, you go to a new place and, because it is new, try to convince yourself that the old place no longer exists; that distance erases history; that the boy who died because of you belonged to only your imagination and therefore never died, and therefore his mother, his sisters, and his survivors survive no one, nothing; they are just people getting on with their lives.
And if you loved this boy, if you are his survivor as much as well as his killer, then you must sacrifice the memory of your love. You must bury grief if guilt is to be endured. As I did, in Los Angeles, for thirty-one years."
- David Leavitt, While England Sleeps, Houghton Mifflin, 1993

1 comment:

another country said...

Je viens juste d'achever la lecture de While England Sleeps. Pas forcément la meilleure livraison de David Leavitt, mais le personnage d'Edward et son long calvaire me resteront longtemps en mémoire. Un roman sur la capacité apparemment infinie que possèdent certains d'entre nous à tout saboter, à dynamiter, les unes après les autres, les barques en partance pour Cythère, et à dédaigner, non par idéal mais par lâcheté et cécité, le simple bonheur de l'amour sans mélange et de la vie ordinaire.