本周跟大家分享读书。Colm Toibin在The New Yorker上登载的最新作品，《睡眠》
The fear comes on Saturdays, and it comes, too, if I am staying somewhere, in a hotel room, for example, and there is shouting in the street in the night. Shouting under my window. I keep it to myself, the fear, and by doing this sometimes I keep it away, at arm’s length, elsewhere. But there are other times when it breaks through, something close to dread, as though what happened had not occurred yet but will occur, is about to do so, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The fear can come from nowhere. I may be reading, as I often do on Saturdays while you practice or go to a concert with your friends. I am reading and then suddenly I look up, disturbed.
The fear enters the pit of my stomach and the base of my neck like pain, and it seems as if nothing could lift it. Eventually, as it came, it will go, though not easily. Sometimes a sigh, or a walk to the fridge, or making myself busy putting clothes or papers away, will rid me of it, but it is always hard to tell what will work. The fear could stay for a while, or come back as though it had forgotten something. It is not under my control.
He died. That is the most important thing to say. My brother was in his own house in Dublin. He was alone. It was a Saturday night, Sunday morning. He called for an ambulance before two in the morning. When it arrived, he was dead, and the paramedics could not bring him back to life. I have never told anyone that I was awake in that room in Brighton in those hours. It hardly matters. It matters only to me and only at times.