"Nancy Kress - The Price of Oranges" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

writes so depressing?"
"Everything," Harry said. "Listen to this one." He drew out another
magazine, smaller, bound in rough paper with a stylized line drawing of a
woman's private parts on the cover. On the cover! Harry held the magazine with
one palm spread wide over the drawing, which made it difficult to keep the
pages open while he read. "She looked at her mother in the only way possible:
with contempt, contempt for all the betrayals and compromises that had been
her mother's life, for the sad soft lines of defeat around her mother's mouth,
for the bright artificial dress too young for her wasted years, for even the
leather handbag, Gucci of course, filled with blood money for having sold her
life to a man who had long ceased to want it."
"Hoo boy," Manny said. "About a _mother_ she wrote that?"
"About everybody. All the time."
"And where _is_ Barbara?"
"Reno again. Another divorce." How many had that been? After two, did
anybody count? Harry didn't count. He imagined Barbara's life as a large
roulette wheel like the ones on TV, little silver men bouncing in and out of
red and black pockets. Why didn't she get dizzy?
Manny said slowly, "I always thought there was a lot of love in her."
"A lot of that she's got," Harry said dryly. "Not Barbara -- Jackie. A
lot of ... I don't know. Sweetness. Under the way she is."
"The way she is," Harry said gloomily. "Prickly. A cactus. But you're
right, Manny, I know what you mean. She just needs someone to soften her up.
Love her back, maybe. Although I love her."
The two old men looked at each other. Manny said, "Harry..."
"I know, I know. I'm only a grandfather, my love doesn't count, I'm
just there. Like air. 'You're wonderful, Popsy,' she says, and still no teeth
when she smiles. But you know, Manny -- you are right!" Harry jumped up from
the bench. "You are! What she needs is a young man to love her!"
Manny looked alarmed. "I didn't say -- "
"I don't know why I didn't think of it before!"
"Harry -- "
"And her stories, too! Full of ugly murders, ugly places, unhappy
endings. What she needs is something to show her that writing could be about
sweetness, too."
Manny was staring at him hard. Harry felt a rush of affection. That
Manny should have the answer! Skinny wonderful Manny!
Manny said slowly, "Jackie said to me, 'I write about reality.' That's
what she said, Harry."
"So there's no sweetness in reality? Put sweetness in her life, her
writing will go sweet. She _needs_ this, Manny. A really nice fellow!"
Two men in jogging suits ran past. One of their Reeboks came down on a
shard of beer bottle. "Every fucking time!" he screamed, bending over to
inspect his shoe. "Fucking park!"
"Well, what do you expect?" the other drawled, looking at Manny and
Harry. "Although you'd think that if we could clean up Lake Erie..."
"Fucking derelicts!" the other snarled. They jogged away.
"Of course," Harry said, "it might not be easy to find the sort of guy
to convince Jackie."
"Harry, I think you should maybe think -- "