I liked The Old Man immediately. Liked his great, stooping height; the looseness of the ever-present tweed jacket that hung from his gaunt shoulders. Liked his rosy pink face and small blue eyes that looked at one so piercingly it was difficult not to turn one's head to see what he was viewing through it. Liked, even, that he himself had at times a look of madness to match my own - though it was a benign look that seemed to observe a connection between whatever held his gaze and some grand, unimaginably spacious design, quite beyond one's comprehension.
In other words, he looked as if he would soon die. I found this comforting.
Possessing The Secret Of Joy - Alice Walker
О, эта книга. Эта книга! Про африканскую женщину, которая сходит с ума из-за насилия, которому она подверглась в детстве.
Вот она, причина, по которой у меня нет сил и желания что-либо читать: учебной литературы мне хватает за глаза.