lunedì 23 giugno 2014

Vronsky was making love to Anna

Vronsky was making love to Anna.
Emma read the sentence again, distracted by the pillar of a woman behind her. Did Tolstoy really mean making love? She couldn't think so. Having sex? It would be so bald written on the page like that. Surely they can't have been making love here and there like this in the nineteenth century. It must refer to something else, something more benign. She flushed, a little guiltily. Not that having sex wasn't benign - of course it was, it led to babies, after all. Though the things that she and Will had begun to do in the dark had nothing whatsoever to do with babies. But Anna and Vronsky? They had been constrained, wasn't that the idea? Perhaps it was the translation. She flipped to the cover of the book and read the name beneath Tolstoy's - Constance Garnett. Emma thought she understood. Vronsky had whispered something loving to Anna, or soothed Anna lovingly, or something like that, and Miss Garnett had used other words instead, painting what ought to be a pink scene - scarlet. Probably a spinster; the pathetic type who reads passion into the twist of a shut umbrella.

Tratto da The postmistress, di Sarah Blake.

4 commenti:

  1. Questo è tratto da quella serie di libri che ti piacciono tanto in cui i personaggi leggono tutti lo stesso autore misterioso?

    1. hahahaha no! Quelli sono spassosi, questo per ora ha toni molto seri :)

    2. Oh.. :-( per una volta che pensavo fosse qualcosa di ironico


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