Читать книгу Jane - Мэгги Нельсон - Страница 22

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One day rummaging through

the “utility room,” I find

a few loose pages of a journal

I assume is my own: pages

and pages of self-doubt;

a relentlessly plaintive tone;

and a wanting, a raw wanting

not yet hidden in my

poems. But I don’t have

a beautiful, hard-leaning

script, nor was I alive

in 1966. The journal is

Jane’s, from when she was

twenty years old. After

making sure no one’s at home,

I sneak into my mother’s office

and Xerox all of it, then carefully place

the original back where it belongs.