‘The Window’

I can’t recall where I originally found this story (I believe the author may be unknown), but I came across it while I was perusing some old files. It’s only about 600 words long. Enjoy:

A man, seriously ill, had to spend all his time flat on his back. He occupied the same hospital room as another.

The other man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room’s only window.

The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, and where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.

The man who lay flat on his back began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the outside world:

“The window overlooks a park with a lovely lake,” the man by the window said. “Ducks and swans play on the water while children sail their model boats. Lovers walk arm in arm amid flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees grace the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline can be seen in the distance.” As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a marvelous parade passing by. The parade was too far distant to hear; however, the man on the other bed could see it in his mind’s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with vivid, descriptive detail.

Unexpectedly, an alien thought entered the listening man’s head: Why should the man by the window have all the pleasure of seeing the wondrous world outside while I never get to see anything? It didn’t seem fair. As the thought fermented the man felt shame. But as the days passed and he missed seeing more sights, his envy eroded into resentment and soon turned him sour. He began to brood and he was unable to sleep. He should be by that window: that thought now controlled his life.

Late one night, the man by the window began to cough. He was choking on the fluid in his lungs. The other man watched in the dimly lit room as the struggling man by the window groped for the button to call for help. Listening from across the room the other man never moved to push his own button, which would have brought the nurse running.

In less than five minutes the coughing and choking stopped, along with the sound of breathing. There was only silence. Deathly silence.

The following morning the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths. When she found the lifeless body of the man by the window she was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take it away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it all himself. He strained, and laboriously, carefully, turned to look out the window.

It faced a blank wall.

 

A Woman in Jerusalem

A Woman in Jerusalem, by A.B. Yehoshua [translated from the Hebrew by Hillel Halkin]

This is a deceptively simple story that is filled with symbolic echoes. A woman — Yulia Ragayev, a Russian expatriate — is the victim of a suicide bombing in Jerusalem. The company who employed her is accused of inhumanity, and an unnamed human resource manager is assigned the task of resolving the situation.

The resource manager becomes obsessed with Yulia’s identity; her individuality, the meager possessions in her home, and her social relations. He is irrevocably changed by his investigative interaction with the dead woman and those who knew her.

An ominous mood of Jerusalem is portrayed, as is its humanity and compassion.

The resource manager goes on an epic journey; the reader is taken along and — if receptive — is also changed.

An excellent novel: I plan to re-read this book in a few years; I think I’ll enjoy it even more the second time.

Recommended.

 

The Makioka Sisters

The Makioka Sisters, by Junichiro Tanizaki, was translated from the Japanese by Edward Seidensticker. The Japanese title, Sasameyuki, means ‘light snow’ and evokes an image (in poetics) of cherry blossoms falling in spring, denoting impermanence, a major theme in the novel. Notably, one of the Makioka sisters is named Yukiko; the yuki in her name, as in the Japanese title, means snow.

This is not my favorite type of fiction (i.e.: the interaction of three (sometimes four) women), but I found myself warming to the novel as I journeyed through the pages. It is a melancholy story, which focuses on the decay of the Makioka family status just prior to World War II. The impermanence of life is represented, in part, by the deterioration of traditions, the annual outings to experience the cherry blossoms, illness and death, and Sachiko’s unhappiness at the eventuality of ‘losing’ her sister — Yukiko — to a husband.

A lasting image from the novel is of the three youngest sisters (Taeko, Yukiko, and Sachiko) dressed in kimonos and strolling through the shrines to view the cherry blossoms, while tourists snap pictures of the three women (some of whom asked permission; others, impolitely, did not).

It was a bittersweet book to finish and, as I closed the cover, it was as if the final cherry blossom had fallen to the ground (and now I’ll have to de-emasculate myself by reading some Hemingway (or his ilk)).

Recommended

 

Book review: The End of Mr. Y, by Scarlett Thomas

The End of Mr. Y, by Scarlett Thomas

I was looking forward to reading this book; and, after absorbing it, I’m glad that I read it, but wasn’t as dazzled as I’d hoped.

In The End of Mr. Y (the end of mystery(?)), the protagonist, Ariel Manto (Ariel means ‘lion of God’ in Hebrew; also, Ariel Manto is an anagram of I am not real), guides us through an array of intellectual thoughts, with sprinklings of philosophy, physics, religion, homeopathy, deconstruction theory, et cetera. Unfortunately, it did not quite provide the depth that I had anticipated. And the wrap-up was a disappointing, science fiction cliché.

I appreciated the characterization of Ariel, but it felt affected at times.

This is the first novel I’ve read by Scarlett Thomas; I enjoyed it more than I’ve made it appear above and I’ll probably read more of her works.

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