HANDS from Talking to the Dead We first recognised each other as if we were siblings, and when we held hands your touch made me stupidly happy. Hold my hand, you said in the hospital . You had big hands, strong hands, gentle as those of a Mediterranean father caressing the head of a child. Hold my hand , you said. I feel I won’t die while you are here. You took my hand on our first aeroplane and in opera houses, or watching a video you wanted me to share. Hold my hand, you said. I’ll fall asleep and … Читать далее →

Afghan My taxi driver yesterday was an Afghan Living in London for some years. What he missed most, he explained, was The sense that what he does matters to anyone. There are no gains. His neighbours rarely provoke him to more than Flickers of shame or occasional adrenalin. He is in exile. Tonight I am alone, Simply a woman sitting undressed in An Edward Hopper bedroom. Elaine Feinstein (1930) Афганец Вчера взяла такси. Шофером был афганец, проживший в Лондоне довольно долго. Он говорил мне, что больше всего он страдает от сознания того, что вокруг никому до него нету дела. Ничего … Читать далее →