"China Mieville - Details" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mieville China)

information she sought was buried very cleverly in the banal prose I
faltered through.
"In the meantime, there's another way of surviving," she said slyly.
"Leave the eyes where they are, but don't give them any details.
"ThatтАж thing can force me to notice its shape, but only in what's
there. That's how it travels. You imagine if I saw a field of wheat.
Doesn't even bear thinking about! A million million little bloody
edges, a million lines. You could make pictures of damn anything
out of them, couldn't you? It wouldn't take any effort at all for the
thing to make me notice it. The damn lurker. Or in a gravel drive or,
or a building site, or a lawnтАж
"But I can outsmart it." The note of cunning in her voice made her
sound deranged. "Keep it away till I work out how to close it off.
"I had to prepare this blind, with the wrappings round my head.
Took me a while, but here I am now. Safe. I'm safe in my little cold


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China Mieville - Details


room. I keep the walls flat white. I covered the windows and painted
them, too. I made my cloak out of plastic, so's I can't catch a
glimpse of cotton weave or anything when I wake up.
"I keep my place nice andтАж simple. When it was all done, I
unwrapped the bandages from my head, and I blinked slowlyтАж and
I was alright. Clean walls, no cracks, no features. I don't look at my
hands often or for long. Too many creases. Your mother makes me
a good healthy soup looks like cream, so if I accidentally look in the
bowl, there's no broccoli or rice or tangled up spaghetti to make
lines and edges.
"I open and shut the door so damned quick because I can only
afford a moment. That thing is ready to pounce. It wouldn't take a
second for it to leap up at me out of the sight of your hair or your
books or whatever."
Her voice ebbed out. I waited a minute for her to resume, but she
did not do so. Eventually I knocked nervously on the door and
called her name. There was no answer. I put my ear to the door. I
could hear her crying, quietly.
I went home without the bowl. My mother pursed her lips a little
but said nothing. I didn't tell her any of what Mrs. Miller had said. I
was troubled and totally confused.
The next time I delivered Mrs. Miller's food, in a new container, she
whispered harshly to me: "It preys on my eyes, all the white.
Nothing to see. Can't look out the window, can't read, can't gaze at
my nails. Preys on my mind.
"Not even my memories are left," she said in misery. "It's


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