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Claire-Louise Bennett: Pond: Stories

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Claire-Louise Bennett Pond: Stories

Pond: Stories: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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How much should you let in and how much should you give away? Feverish and forthright, Pond is an absorbing chronicle of a solitudinous life told by an unnamed woman living on the cusp of a coastal town. The physical world depicted in these stories is unsettling yet intimately familiar and soon takes on a life of its own. Captivated by the stellar charms of seclusion but restless with desire, the woman’s relationship with her surroundings becomes boundless and increasingly bewildering. Claire-Louise Bennett’s startlingly original first collection is by turns darkly funny and deeply moving.

Claire-Louise Bennett: другие книги автора


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Later on I cycle to the out-of-town supermarket and as I get onto the second road I notice that both cars which pass me in opposite directions have their lights switched on to the max. It seems darker here than it did two minutes ago outside my house when I was putting on my gloves and then sort of swiped at the bicycle saddle with my left elbow in an attempt to make it dry. I have no other choice but to turn around and go back for my body lights. It’s a load of shit that I didn’t bring them with me — I even took them out of my rucksack to make more room for the groceries I was heading off to buy — what a load of shit. Where is my fucking sense of eventuality exactly? When I get out onto the second road a second time it’s really obvious how quickly the last bit of light is getting used up, and of course there is so much rubbish all over the small fields I pedal alongside of. Entire household sacks filled completely up and knotted tightly and stowed into the back of the car just so and driven here. Not exactly spur of the minute then — but there’s very little difficulty in rationalising the implementation of even very appalling activities. That’s just something anyone can do very effectively and on the spot in fact. I notice the fullness of the moon when I come out of the supermarket — it’s right there in front of me when the automatic doors retreat. The sky isn’t yet black so the moon has a sovereignty it doesn’t often possess — but in a way it looks as if it is coping with stage fright. Yes, it is as if the curtains have just opened on it! And so low is it that it seems only natural and forthright to reach out to the cowering moon. Pssst, take it easy, fix your gaze on something and get your balance babyface — that’s right, I’m bucking up the moon of all things — and yes, look, it’s as if in fact the moon has closed it eyes and is taking a slow inhalation.

A deep breath before the rise and shine. I really want to communicate all of that, to tell you about the moon and its dithering autonomy and how I encourage it to get a grip and shape up, but I’ve already put my gloves back on and so I leave it, as inflexible as that seems, and when I get home, even though I take my gloves off right away, I don’t text you immediately about the moon — I hang up some coats that were looking very untidy on the back of the armchairs and I light the fire and I take a bin liner from beneath the sink and dispose of some perishables that were left on the worktop and I go back outside to take the main shopping bag off of the back bike rack, and I think I also eat some cheese before I text you about the moon. As it turns out you’re in the cinema so empathising with the moon’s wincing fullness isn’t on the cards for you at all right now. The moon of course will still be there, or thereabouts, when the movie has finished and you leave the cinema — but naturally I can’t vouch for what condition it’ll be in by then. The sky by then you see will undoubtedly be absolutely black — and a bit avuncular too I expect. It could actually get a little camp tonight if you ask me. Keeping the moon up with its camp and conspiratorial antics. Keeping the moon up all night long! Look at that, look at the moon yawning its head off all night long! You’re not enjoying the film, in fact it’s terrible, and I have a hunch which film it is and you ask me how I knew and I say I was talking about it in the week with a friend — which is true but doesn’t answer your question — and I add that despite wearing gloves my hands got really cold while I cycled back from the supermarket. I was surprised actually, at just how cold my hands got, given that I was wearing gloves, and a little bit later on, while talking on the phone to my friend who lives nearby, I mentioned to him how cold my hands had been, despite my wearing gloves, and I asked him about a pair of thermal gloves a friend of ours had lent me and which I’d subsequently lent to him one evening. We’d made jokes about those gloves the evening I lent them to my friend for the reason that they are the sort of gloves you’d wear in Siberia and wasn’t it just like our friend to have the sort of gloves you’d wear in Siberia, but now, since the wind is supposed to be coming more or less directly from Siberia, they are not quite so funny any more.

I also watched a really terrible film, yet there was something so kindly about it that it was a while before I could admit how awful it was, by which time its awfulness was somehow indivisible from its kindness, so I carried on with it, right up until the end — which of course I do not recall. Now and then throughout each thing that passes I see something like a lopsided Godzilla sticking up through the water — it’s so revolting, the way my mind keeps on turning it over, trying to substantiate it. I must have really needed an idea to get hold of. I must have been really desperate to have something relatable to work with. Something with girth! Not a metaphor, nothing like that — I’d never want the monster to stand for something, that’s for sure. At the very most I would have maybe said something about the house nearby, which, by the way, did seem a bit susceptible. Just having it in my field of vision felt uncomfortable if you want to know, as if I was a pent up pervert in fact. Even looking away was calculated. Even looking away was looking. The first time I got home I turned on the immersion just like I knew I would, but I didn’t take a shower, and even though I took my tango dress off and dropped it into the laundry basket I did not remove my under garments so if you must know I’m still wearing tights and my knickers inside out. The smell of me like a young mouth to a compound fence. It’s better anyhow to leave things alone. I’ve decided that once and for all. I don’t want to be in the business of turning things into other things, it feels fatal for one reason. As if making the world smaller because of all the intact explanations that need to occur in order for one thing to become another thing. Secretly, deep inside, I accept I’ve no option but to retreat from a vocation I’ve never achieved any success from and my plan now is to really throw in the towel and go to Brazilmysorebalimontanatrondheimnyonsbristol, as soon as my lease is up. And there’s no fear of my lease being renewed by the way because my landlady has had to put all three cottages on the market.

She’s more or less been forced to if you want to know. When she came around to tell me she was with her sister who was wearing a very peculiar hat with a wide furry brim which I couldn’t deduce the point of at all. I hated the hat to be perfectly blunt, and I also hated, maybe even more than the hat, the pale frosty lipstick she had selected to wear. Whatever was the point of all that? Exactly? She kept looking down at some metal things I have resting near my door and then back up at me as if all of this was a question I would feel pressed to answer, but I easily ignored her and asked my landlady how she felt about having to sell. I could sense her response was regrettably hampered by the presence of her sister and the impatient brim of her peculiar furry hat, which took up a lot of space actually so that it was quite a job for the pair of them to stand side-by-side in my doorway. She said it would be ages yet before anything happened, and in any case they’d have to give me two months notice because of how long I’d been living here and I said that was just fine. As a matter of fact I’ve been thinking about taking off somewhere I said. Is that right, she said, anywhere in mind? Oh, Brazil, I said. Brazil, she said. My landlady’s hands were very apparent for some reason and in order to stop looking at her fingers especially I found I looked down at my own hands, which upset me very much actually, so I said that’s fine again and keep me posted then I went into the kitchen, and not long after, while I stood at my kitchen sink swilling out the teapot, two men arrived who I presume were estate agents because of the kind of folders they waved about and did nothing with.

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