Silent Scream

Начало книги

We tend to dream of perfection. The perfect job, the perfect life, the perfect woman.

A cold January day on the East Side as I came out of the subway and walked north on Lexington Avenue, and six months since Marty had married her director. Martine Adair, my woman, but not any more. Martine Reston now, and a one-armed man dreams more than most, makes perfect what never was or should have been.

She had replaced my missing arm for so long, and now in my morning mirror there was only one arm and no woman. Six months of booze, and of watching her new apartment from a solitary doorway across the street. Finally, a morning of daylight, and the call of a client with a job. Reality.

Perfection doesn’t exist. In the reality of daylight and action most of us accept that, but alone in the long nights we dream fantasies of perfection as unreal as the dream world of any psychotic. The only difference between most of us and the psychotic is that the psychotic lets the dream world win. Maybe they are braver, more honest. They take the plunge, escape. Only that is no escape, either, no answer.

Читать дальше →