Everything’s quiet, the house is still. Mike and I have anticipated this moment, we’ve talked about it and rehearsed it in our heads so many times that recently it’s sometimes seemed like a relief: it’s actually come. On the other hand, it’s monstrous, it’s outrageous–and it’s in our power to postpone it. But ‘after their sixteenth birthday’, we said, and let’s be strict about it. Perhaps you may even appreciate our discipline and tact. Let’s be strict, but let’s not be cruel. Give them a week. Let them have their birthday, their last birthday of that old life.
You’re sleeping the deep sleep of teenagers. I just about remember it. I wonder how you’ll sleep tomorrow.
Llegint el Tomorrow de Graham Swift per una propera crítica al Go m'adono que m'agrada més del que recordava... És grandiloqüent i tràgic i tot lo que vulgueu però és també molt, molt real.
Una antiga entrada sobre Graham Swift redactada en un estil TERRIBLE i PRETENCIÓS aquí . Em defensaré dient que està escrita en un moment molt, molt extrany de ma vida.
