(no subject)
mmm, 1554... so yummy...
so, anyway. something I've been reading:
"George and Ruth Fox were afraid of dogs and cats and their own shadows. I could see them peeking out at me from behind closed curtains whenever I would come knocking at the back door. They jumped whenever there was an unexpected knock at the door. Their hands trembled when they answered a ringing telephone. When Ruth Fox hung laundry to dry in the sun, she kept looking around for the movement of enemies on her flank. For years and years, I tried to decipher what was wrong. I spied and eavesdropped and watched the quiet motion of their family as I monitored their activities from the branches of the oak tree after dark. The only thing I could ever come up with was that Shyla's parents seemed to grow darker, not older. Mr. Fox would often wake up screaming in the middle of the night during nightmares he had brought with him to this country. When I asked Shyla what made her father scream at night, she told me that I must be dreaming myself, that she had never heard a thing. Once I heard him scream out the name of a woman, but it was no one I had ever heard of nor anyone who had ever lived in our neighborhood. After he awoke with this strange woman's name on his lips and as I moved along the branches of the moonlit oak that gave me access to such secrets, I heard Ruth comforting her husband. Listening to this sorrowful and intimate scene, I pinched myself hard, for Shyla's sake, to make sure I was not dreaming. I tried to overhear their conversation, but they were speaking to each other in another language. Though I could not understand that language, I knew enough about words to know that Ruth loved George Fox beyond all measure and time.
"In the years that followed Shyla's party the sense of darkness and unhappiness in the Fox household seemed to deepen. I often thought perhaps it came from George Fox's fanatical absorption with his music. All of us were afraid of Mr. Fox, with his impeccable Old World manners, his disfigured hand, his suffering, and his reticence that seemed unnatural when accompanied by his baleful glare. Though his music students adored him, they were gathered up from the most sensitive and highly strung children. At night, as I tried to go to sleep, I listened to Mr. Fox play the piano, and I learned from those evening recitals that music could ache and hurt, that beautiful music was a place a suffering man could hide. . . .
"As I passed through the thick branches of oak, I heard Ruth say, 'Get away from that window, Shyla. The Angel of Death could be passing by.'
"I turned back and saw Shyla's small, fearful face. She waved at me and I waved back. I realize now that the Foxes' house on the Point in Waterford was simply an extension of Bergen-Belsen, a rest stop on the way to the crematoriums. Neither of Shyla's parents could leave the country of their hideous past. George Fox played his music to console those who went up in smoke and joined the airstreams over Poland. Each black note celebrated the loss of a soul who entered the river of death without the consolation of music. The house floated with tears and terror and uncontainable fury and music that made children dream of the jackbooted intruders who lit their way with torches made of Jewish hair."
so, anyway. something I've been reading:
"George and Ruth Fox were afraid of dogs and cats and their own shadows. I could see them peeking out at me from behind closed curtains whenever I would come knocking at the back door. They jumped whenever there was an unexpected knock at the door. Their hands trembled when they answered a ringing telephone. When Ruth Fox hung laundry to dry in the sun, she kept looking around for the movement of enemies on her flank. For years and years, I tried to decipher what was wrong. I spied and eavesdropped and watched the quiet motion of their family as I monitored their activities from the branches of the oak tree after dark. The only thing I could ever come up with was that Shyla's parents seemed to grow darker, not older. Mr. Fox would often wake up screaming in the middle of the night during nightmares he had brought with him to this country. When I asked Shyla what made her father scream at night, she told me that I must be dreaming myself, that she had never heard a thing. Once I heard him scream out the name of a woman, but it was no one I had ever heard of nor anyone who had ever lived in our neighborhood. After he awoke with this strange woman's name on his lips and as I moved along the branches of the moonlit oak that gave me access to such secrets, I heard Ruth comforting her husband. Listening to this sorrowful and intimate scene, I pinched myself hard, for Shyla's sake, to make sure I was not dreaming. I tried to overhear their conversation, but they were speaking to each other in another language. Though I could not understand that language, I knew enough about words to know that Ruth loved George Fox beyond all measure and time.
"In the years that followed Shyla's party the sense of darkness and unhappiness in the Fox household seemed to deepen. I often thought perhaps it came from George Fox's fanatical absorption with his music. All of us were afraid of Mr. Fox, with his impeccable Old World manners, his disfigured hand, his suffering, and his reticence that seemed unnatural when accompanied by his baleful glare. Though his music students adored him, they were gathered up from the most sensitive and highly strung children. At night, as I tried to go to sleep, I listened to Mr. Fox play the piano, and I learned from those evening recitals that music could ache and hurt, that beautiful music was a place a suffering man could hide. . . .
"As I passed through the thick branches of oak, I heard Ruth say, 'Get away from that window, Shyla. The Angel of Death could be passing by.'
"I turned back and saw Shyla's small, fearful face. She waved at me and I waved back. I realize now that the Foxes' house on the Point in Waterford was simply an extension of Bergen-Belsen, a rest stop on the way to the crematoriums. Neither of Shyla's parents could leave the country of their hideous past. George Fox played his music to console those who went up in smoke and joined the airstreams over Poland. Each black note celebrated the loss of a soul who entered the river of death without the consolation of music. The house floated with tears and terror and uncontainable fury and music that made children dream of the jackbooted intruders who lit their way with torches made of Jewish hair."