Книга только для ознакомления
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As always, Mother's words are graceful, high-sounding. I
hear them as I sit by a window that must face west, for I can
feel the warmth on my face most deeply when the loudest
bird song is passing, when the first crickets of what must be
early spring begin that scrape and rattle that brings night to
the ear. And since the handwriting in my letter no doubt
will surprise you, I must tell you one thing more, that in this
room sits a nurse, attentive and kind, who writes down the
long words, the longer thoughts from brother to brother. Her
voice is soft, muffled. Harder to hear than the sound of the
birds or the crickets. I can only imagine she has turned
away from me as she writes down what I have to say to you.
She asks me to continue, her voice louder now. As I
have said, she is kind. She is attentive.
I wish that when I was younger I had paid more
attention to bird song. My nurse has told me that the birds in
the evening sing the names of those who will die in the
night. I have no itch for prophecy, but I suppose that the
song is subtle, that perhaps different birds sing at different
times of the day, or that perhaps there is even a language
among them - a sort of call and response, some quarrels I
might understand had I listened earlier and more intently
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