Let the scripts collect dust.
The holiday weekend, especially a blustery one, is for reading for pure pleasure.
Ian McEwan is one of my favorite authors so his short new novel, Nutshell,
told from the perspective of a fetus who overhears a plot for murder,
was the perfect long weekend companion.
“o here I am, upside down in a woman.
Arms patiently crossed, waiting, waiting and wondering who I'm in, what I'm in for.
My eyes close nostalgically when I remember how I once drifted in my translucent body bag, floated dreamily in the bubble of my thoughts
through my private ocean in slow-motion somersaults,
colliding gently against the transparent bounds of my confinement,
the confiding membrane that vibrated with, even as it muffled,
the voices of conspirators in a vile enterprise.
That was in my careless youth.
Now, fully inverted, not an inch of space to myself,
knees crammed against my belly, my thoughts as well as my head are fully engaged.
I've no choice, my ear is pressed all day and night against the bloody walls.
I listen, make mental notes, and I'm troubled.
I'm hearing pillow talk of deadly intent and I'm terrified by what awaits me,
by what might draw me in.”