Читать книгу The Widow Nash - Jamie Harrison - Страница 7

Cordelia Blake had spent the beginning of the end of her first life, an All Souls’ Day, wandering through the new east galleries at the Metropolitan, studying marble running girls and naked men with weapons, squinting at vases and sarcophagi and gold boxes that had once served as coffins. Upstairs, a millennia later, the girls and angry men were made of oil and watercolor, framed between the play of light on hanging game and wine glasses and lemon peels, sharp and beautiful; beyond every scene of human pursuit, and through the windows of the still lives, almost all the paintings had moving water and idealized ruins, smashed down by time or war or—possibly— earthquakes.

Which made Miss Blake laugh.

—Lewis Braudel, The Lady Vanishes, 1908