[Dwa fragmenty z powieści Johna Lanchestera Capital (Faber and Faber, 2012). Ogólnie nie wiem, co sądzić o tej książce. To znaczy, że naprawdę nie wiem. ]

‘I’ve got cancer,’ Petunia had said, with a sensation that she had bumped into something. People talked about the floor opening up beneath you, or the ground falling from beneath your feet, and things like that, but it wasn’t how Petunia felt; she felt as if she had walked into something invisible. Something which had always been there but which she hadn’t been able, and still wasn’t able, to see.

‘Not strictly,’ the doctor said. […] ‘Brain tumour is not a form of cancer. But you do have a tumour and I am sorry to say there is evidence that it is growing.’

Evidence – a heavy word.


The punchline was that she was now dying. Petunia’s story was an example of life’s capacity to go on being one thing, to be it more that it was possible to imagine, and then to be more of the same, only more intensely so. It was unbearable. And like so many unbearable things, it had to be borne.