Читать книгу The Collector of Bodies - Diane Glancy - Страница 15

You change countries on a plane with Arabic writing. Your small roll-on luggage upright by your legs without safety regulations you know in your country. But a lunch that is right.

Sometimes I met in different places between classrooms and lunch rooms with students, each trying to say what they thought, what they wanted, asking if there was a way to take them. Later, the letters would arrive from young men with their photographs.

The trip felt like pieces from different puzzles mixed together with pieces missing from each. I picked up desperation. Maybe my own. I felt an insurrection, a rising of impossibilities wedged into hope, though the avenues were not there that would bypass the troubles.

It was freedom they wanted, a word so used in America its power was not as hallowed.

At night, in my room alone, I wanted to stay beside the awful hugeness of the world.