Una noche, no hace mucho, un amigo me preguntó que libro me gustaría haber escrito. Respondí que este. Lo he recomendado en cuanto taller, clase, charla, entrevista, conversación he tenido. He pasado puerta por puerta en la unidad, en el barrio, y cuando el rostro desconcertado se asoma a la ventana le pregunto "¿Ha oído hablar de Carson McCullers?", y aprovecho que no comprenden para decirles que lean "El corazón es un cazador solitario". Todo en este libro es hermoso. Brillante y hermoso. Esperanzado y hermoso. Cómico y hermoso. Doloroso y hermoso. Tejer con tanta belleza sólo puede crear un universo irrompible. Está entre las mejores novelas que he leído. Está entre los libros que más he amado. Bendito sea entre todas las bibliotecas, y que su música suene, y se desborde de las casas, por los siglos de los siglos.

This book...

Was just not for me. It had all the things I normally look for in a literary pick, and I was excited to see what a 23 year old woman had to say in a time that was dominated by men. We have five main characters and each chapter rotated their perspectives. Mr Singer- the town mute who becomes the one that the other characters connect to the most. Mick Kelly (a great name)- a young girl into music and coming of age. Dr. Copeland- a black doctor rallying against racial injustice with an estranged family, Jack Blount- gets the award for most annoying, and finally Biff Brannon- who I found myself feeling the most for. This novel is set in a small town in Georgia and as a reader, you quickly pick up the tensions in the town.

This book was boring, I never wanted to pick it back up again and honestly-- if I DNF'ed books, this would be one. There was even a plot point where I was shocked and wanted to keep reading, but the author didn't address the plot point. In my opinion, this book needed a better editor and these characters were so thin that I couldn't connect to any of them. None of these characters grew at all and most were infuriating. Glad to check this off my list, and one I certainly will not be revisiting.

The heart is a lonely hunter and it can break in many different ways.

Mine broke several times while reading this stunning document of American life. What a rich and multifaceted story, and what a perfect complement to other giants of American storytelling of that era.

Just in the beginning, I saw traces of Steinbeck, most notably of his Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday, in the small town talk and the slightly comical marital scenes. But the tone quickly grew darker, and when African American life was introduced and put into contrast with the poor white characters, deeply rooted issues of racism, prejudice, exploitation and segregation took over.

I thought I would claim one of the most heartbreaking scenes to be the naive prayer of an old coloured person, whose hope in Jesus reflects the evil of racist society and its dominating gods perfectly:

“I say to Him, “Jesus Christ, us is all sad coloured peoples.” And then he will place His holy hand upon our heads and straightway us will be white as cotton.”

My heart broke for that desperate old person, whose religion is tainted by the hopeless situation of white supremacy, both in the spiritual and physical world. But it turned out to be a minor issue in the complex community of lonely hearts.

My heart broke for the man who tries to change the lives of coloured people in his neighbourhood, exchanging belief in Jesus for belief in Marxism, and seeing the dogma of socialism as the natural conclusion of the teachings of Jesus. He reminded me of the confused characters in Wise Blood, who get rid of their aggressive religion only to create another anti-creed, while mirroring their previous behaviour exactly. They have been trained to accept an authoritarian dogma even if they drop their supernatural faith in gods. Religious at heart, they have to follow a strong leader. There is no freedom of thought.

But even though the socialist idea contains respect and hope for a better future for African Americans as well as for the poor masses of workers in general, that concept of life is bound to fail as well in a world that worships and perpetuates white power and corporate domination of capital.

My heart broke when a disillusioned socialist explains the brainwashing that takes place within society to make exploited victims of corporate thinking believe in “American freedom” while rattling their chains.

“But it has taken a hell of a lot of lies to keep them from knowing”, he summarises. But still he chooses to fight his African American counterpart instead of joining forces for real change. Each one according to his own lonely heart and creed.

Trying to obtain justice in such a society can only lead to violence and continued abuse, as a heartbroken father experiences first hand when he tries to enter a white court to demand justice for his son, crippled for life in a prison.

My heart broke when I read about the gratuitous violence against the young coloured men, and their lifelong suffering as a result. They have no voice to cry out for justice, and their fate is that of an Invisible Man in Ellison’s definition: they can’t be seen because nobody wants to see them. BLACK LIVES MATTER, one feels like yelling, taking a knee for change after a long history of abuse. But we all know what power answers when one tries to make one’s voice heard. Money and exclusive club behaviour speak louder than justice. Still.

My heart broke because of the inhumane suffering of poor children in a society that doesn’t care about healthcare, education and safety. Where children are allowed to recklessly carry weapons at the age of 7, there will be accidents that destroy several families. There is no statistical research needed to prove that general availability of guns has a negative effect on innocent people. When a child hurts another child with a firearm, both end up victims of an absurd interpretation of the “rights of man” to protect themselves.

My heart broke for the young girl who dreams of becoming a pianist, but whose fate it is to live and suffer a poor girl’s life. Nella Larsen’s Quicksand comes to mind - a life spent dreaming, without ever actually having a chance to follow one’s heart.

My heart broke for the deaf mute man around whom the other characters circle like the spokes in a wheel. People in his surroundings treat him like a god because his muteness allows them to give him the qualities they wish him to have. I bow to Carson McCullers for that perfect definition of a god: mute and therefore adaptable to our personal, private imagination! Only the mute’s obese and egocentric fellow mute friend can’t find anything godlike in him, of course, and he suffers as a result. The heart is a strange hunter as well. Some hearts are too broken to be mended, after all.

My heart broke because the contrast between fascism and democracy is as vividly tangible to me in our present times as it was to the characters in 1940, witnessing the rise of Hitler in Europe. When a young Jewish boy explains to his own horror that he was a fascist before he knew what Hitler did to Jews, it echoes what lures young impressionable people to accept and worship the power of a populist narcissist:

“You know all the pictures of the people our age in Europe marching and singing songs and keeping step together. I used to think that was wonderful. All of them pledged to each other and with one leader. All of them with the same ideals and marching in step together.”

The wish for unity in sameness is strong in religious and ideological communities around the world at all times, but occasionally it takes control of a whole generation, as in the 1930s. The scary revelation, to the boy himself, is the fact that it works so well. He concludes that there is no time for personal ambition as long as fascism reigns in Germany. It is democracy against dictatorship, and all other issues are paling beside the great struggle of the time.

My heart broke because it is true, but at the same time it is not. All the other characters still fight their own fights against racism, sexism, poverty and prejudice. Life is too complicated for us to grasp, even when we are living it in a small town in America, powerless and helplessly alone with our pounding hearts.

The heart is a lonely hunter, but we can share our heartfelt stories and hopefully develop some compassion for the hearts of others, learning to treat them with care and respect. For they keep pounding even when they are broken. It just hurts as hell.

“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams!”

Like most of McCullers stories, this is concerns lonely people living in the deep south. This one is set during WW2, told with strong musical currents (she had a place to study piano at the Julliard, and this shines through most of her work) and a radical passion against poverty and injustice.

The language is generally quite simple in terms of vocabulary and sentence length, yet the characters and events are all the more poetic and vivid for this apparent simplicity - a difficult literary trick to pull off.

The main character is John Singer, a deaf mute. Biff Brannon (café owner), Jake Kelly (migrant mechanic and social activist), Dr Copeland (black doctor and communist) and Mick Kelly (girl of 13-14) all attach themselves to Singer, who is of course, the perfect listener for their varied troubles and a blank canvas for them to create him as a god-like figure of whatever kind they each want. The main plot is Singer's relationships with the other four (they have almost none with each other). The subplot is a coming of age strand regarding Mick: moving from passionate and ambitious tomboy to frustrated young woman.

Each character who unburdens themselves to Singer thinks they know him and that he is something of a free spirit. None of them know that he is pining for the burden of caring for Antonapoulos, his former flat mate and fellow deaf mute, now in an asylum. In that relationship, Singer did all the talking and assumed that wisdom and empathy came from Antonapoulos, who largely listened. Now on his own, the tables are turned and he is cast in the role of wise listener. Singer's animated hands are redundant for communication - neglected and stuffed in his pockets.

We all need a Singer, but no one wants to be Singer.

All the closest relationships in this story, even amongst the minor characters, are compromised by literal or emotional distance or largely unreciprocated, though the characters themselves are not always aware of this.

As well as sadness, there is often an underlying sense of menace, though when bad things happen, they are often not what you had expected until a page or two before they happened, making them somehow more shocking.

Overall, a powerful and sad book, yet somehow not a depressing one. Despite much tragedy, there is always a glimmer of hope, arising from love and loyalty (even if it is one-sided).

NB "The Mortgaged Heart" (http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/...) includes an author’s outline of this book, which sheds extra light on the story, though some of her preliminary ideas were not in the final book.

This was a peculiar story set in a Southern town in America in the 1900s. What was so peculiar about it was that it was about Mr Singer, a deaf-mute who’s left alone when his best and trusted friend suddenly leaves him - but actually, the story is more about four very different people who discover Singer and grow fascinated with him; so much so that they confide in him without Singer himself being able to hear them or really understand why they want to talk to him.
My favourite thing about this novel was definitely the writing, but I also loved how it’s about the characters and how they find themselves on different stages in life. Singer helps them discover things about themselves, whereas Singer just feels lonely and desperately needs his best friend back.
I appreciate what this novel set out to do, but a few instances felt a bit too convenient to my taste. I loved this novel a lot, though, and would definitely recommend it to anyone who has any interest in reading this popular, well-loved story.

This is a novel of the American South in the decade or so preceding the Civil Rights Movement. The central character is a deaf mute of almost saintly demeanor, Singer. His story constitutes the narrative spine along which the stories of his fellow characters are strung. These include Mink Kelley, a 13 year old girl; Dr. Copeland, the unnamed town's "negro" doctor, who knows that civil rights for his people is in the offing but is frustrated and angry that his own efforts toward that end have been ineffective; the alcoholic, Jake Blount, a carney whose narrow ideological Communism leaves him frustrated and angry. Blount is in many ways the white counterpart of Dr. Copeland. Their thinking is similar on many levels, but their meeting of the minds is not a productive one. Biff Brannon is the owner of a local restaurant, the New York Cafe. He is probably gay, as may be Singer, whose mute roommate Antonapoulis is committed to an asylum in the early going because of anti-social behavior.

There's a wonderful, almost unflagging narrative sweep here that is rare in my reading experience. McCullers wrote this when she was 21 and 22. I think her greatest gift as an author is her deep empathy for her characters. It is this empathy that gives the book its powerful emotional appeal. The novel is mostly rendered as straightforward chronology. There are a few flashbacks, but McCuller keeps these to a minimum. The action takes place in an unnamed southern mill town in what is perhaps Mississippi between two distinct historical events: British PM Chamberlain's appeasement of Nazi Germany at Munich (30 Sept. 1938) and Hitler's demand for Danzig from Poland (late August 1939). But these events are only meant to provide context, and the immediate threat they represent to the nation is not a major concern. It is the South. The hot, humid, muggy, buggy American South. The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter is a classic and I recommend it strongly.

I find myself consistantly tongue-tied about this book. I've begun nearly four different reviews of this eminantly enjoyable read that have all petered away into nothingness as I try to put into words just what it was that gripped me about McCullers' opus. The first word I can think of is shock. Shock that I had heard next to nothing about this book until pulling it from my shelf. Shock that I have gone so long without it being assigned to me in a class or forced into my hands by a friend. Shock that this book is not featured on more of those "must-read" or "best writing of the 20th century" lists that get bandied about with the regularity of summer monsoons here on Goodreads. Mostly, though, shock that McCullers turned out such an exquisite and world-weary look at the loneliness that engulfs people and swallows them down when she was only 23. Things like that just make me feel lazy and unaccomplished.

I am the first to admit that I have very little firsthand knowledge of the Southern United States. What I do know is informed through the media I consume and the history we were all taught in school (though, apparently, that history is subjective as well; see "The War of Northern Aggression"). In fact, I could honestly claim that I know more about other continents than I do about the South. As such, I don't feel too comfortable claiming that there is a darkness that seems to live in the land, seeping out to inspire random acts of cruelty or violence and spread waves of intangible dread among its inhabitants (notice that it didn't actually stop me from making said claim). Whether or not this darkness is inherent to the South or McCullers is just tapping into her own personal ennui, reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter often made me feel as though I were journeying upriver to listen to Kurtz exhort me to "exterminate all the brutes."

The book follows four different people and the dreams for a different/better life that they all hold close as a means of escaping the pervasive loneliness which always seems ready to swallow them whole. For Mick Kelly, a precocious young teen cut in the mold of To Kill A Mockingbird's Scout Finch, this dream is of being able to compose and play the music that infects her mind. For the wandering Jake Blount it is of inspiring the downtrodden workers to strike at the mills to improve their conditions. Cafe owner Biff Brannon is ashamed of his creative impulses and the maternal feelings he carries for the children of his patrons and Dr. Copeland is so consumed by his desire to inspire his fellow blacks to greatness that he refuses to take time off to treat the tuberculosis which is slowly killing him.

The lynchpin of all these dreamers is the enigmatic Mr. Singer. A deaf-mute in a city of speakers, Mr. Singer offers himself up as the perfect tabula rasa for the four dreamers. In the small room that he rents from Mick's parents, he sits as calm and quiet as the Buddha as each in their turn visit and pour out their dreams, desires and passions to him- the perfect opinionless tabula rasa. My heart ached for all of these characters as they struggled with realising their dreams and the compromises they all made as they ran into the hard wall of reality. Yet it was Mr. Singer that I cared for above all. Always receptive of others yet unable to share his own thoughts, his only confessor his former roommate who is now interred at an asylum. He is wrapped in a bubble of isolation and it is his loneliness that has stuck with me the hardest since finishing the book.

It's been five days since I finished this book yet I can't bring myself to put it back on my shelf, to really believe that my time with these achingly real people has come to an end. My copy is dog-eared now from me folding down the corners of pages to record a choice description or bit of dialogue and I keep referring back to it in order to make sure that I am not bastardizing McCullers' exquisite prose. It may not have been listed on the 1001 List (but 12 different Ian McEwan novels made the cut?!?) but this is absolutely a book that you must read before you die. Its beauty and its sorrow can't help but touch you.

Loneliness and isolation have been bottled up and painted onto the page here, in Carson McCullers' debut (and now classic) novel set in 1930s small town Georgia. Poverty, segregation, disease, and struggle are all themes in this southern gothic beauty, but it is loneliness that reigns supreme here, a truly desperate need to connect, and an ache-inducing inability to do just that.

John Singer, a deaf-mute who reads lips, is the central figure of this book. He is a magnet that the four main characters (Mick, Jake, Biff and Dr. Copeland) are drawn to. He is the friendly face, the listening ear, the sounding board for their dreams. He provides a respite for their hopelessness. He's like a Jesus figure in the middle of a desert, offering cool refreshment. He becomes what each person wants him to be - an amazing magic trick spun by the simple fact that he does not speak.

But what they don't know is that Singer has his own Jesus figure, his own centre of gravity - another deaf-mute man and his only friend, Antonapoulos - a self centred and piggish man who lives in an asylum. Singer's devotion to Antonapoulos is baffling and makes the reader question Singer's wisdom, as well as warm compassion for a man who seemingly receives nothing in return for the outpouring of his heart.

So what happens if we lose our beacon, our life raft, and find ourselves alone, truly alone?

Maybe she would think about a phrase of hurrying jazz music. Or that a bowl of jello would be in the refrigerator after she got home. Or plan to smoke a cigarette behind the coal house. Maybe she would try to think a long way ahead to the time she would go north and see snow, or even travel somewhere in a foreign land. But these thoughts about good things wouldn't last. The jello was gone in five minutes and the cigarette smoked. Then what was there after that?

This book is understated in that there is no grandness to the plot, no spiking crescendo of action. The people in this book are not exceptional - they are real, living their lives, and they want more from the world than what they have been given.

It's clear Carson McCullers grew up faster than most, given her deep understanding of the world by the age of twenty-three, when she wrote this book. A melodious, sorrowful tune plays through these pages - a tune that I'll be humming for some time.

I may come back and give this four stars, but for now I can't.

I first started this book maybe two years ago. I got about 100 pages into it and stopped. I didn't stop because I disliked it. Rather, it seemed at the time a natural result from the inertia and momentum of the book itself. Basically, I wasn't quite sure whether I had stopped or whether the book itself had simply stopped and I was just going along with it.

I picked it up again because I've always had a nagging feeling about it, and because I hate leaving anything unfinished. And besides, the writing is very good, and there is quite a bit of promise in the book. Of course, all the promise turns out to be false, and that's pretty much the point. (Actually, I guess the point is not so much that the promise is false, but that it gets shut away.)

The book is almost unrelentingly bleak. The main characters are all on the edge of despair. There isn't much chance of any of it getting turned around. And, since a happy resolution is not in the cards, most novels would push the characters over the edge in some sort of cataclysm. McCullers doesn't opt for that sort of showiness. Instead, she just further seals off each of her main characters from any possibility of genuine human contact. This resolution is even sadder, but for me it makes for a less compelling novel.

I've read reviews of people complaining that nothing happens in this book. That's not true. There are lots of great incidents: a riot, a young girl accidently shot in the head, a prisoner losing both of his feet to gangrene after being put in the hole during a freeze, etc... But there's no plot. It never feels like any of the incidents drive anywhere else. And the wants of the characters don't lead to any of the incidents. It's almost like there is a complete disconnect.

Similarly, because the characters are so unable to communicate with each other, there is also no possibility for drama. The characters kind of bounce off of each other from time to time, but they never actually interact. And again, I think all of this is exactly according to plan. But, for me at least, this plan doesn't make for an enjoyable work.

And the bleak view of the world does not do much for me now. If I had read this book in my twenties, when i felt much more in tune with alienation for its own sake, I probably would have loved this book. Even now, I might want to switch my review to four stars because I can see that this is very well done for what it is. But it's no longer for me. I read somewhere a long ago that tragedy was for adolescents, and that comedy was for grown-ups. I hate to think of myself as a grown-up, but over time I do seem to have lost some of my taste for this kind of despair.

Como le comenté a una amiga, me gustó más el contenido, la historia, los personajes, incluso el desolador desenlace, que el estilo de la autora, que se enfanga a veces en su minucioso afán de describirnos la psicología de sus creaciones. Todo es melancólico y profundo y deprimente y bello como solo la tristeza sabe serlo. Me alegro de haberle dado una oportunidad, pero quisiera leer algo más fluido ahora. O sea, que no me voy a poner con el Ulises.

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1940) is the debut novel by the American author Carson McCullers; she was 23 at the time of publication. It is about a deaf man named John Singer and the people he encounters in a 1930's mill town in the US state of Georgia. The book begins with a focus on the relationship between two close friends, John Singer and Spiros Antonapoulos. The two are described as deaf-mutes who have lived together for several years. Antonapoulos becomes mentally ill, misbehaves, and despite attempts at intervention from Singer, is eventually put into an insane asylum away from town. Now alone, Singer moves into a new room. The remainder of the narrative centers on the struggles of four of John Singer's acquaintances: Mick Kelly, a tomboyish girl who loves music and dreams of buying a piano; Jake Blount, an alcoholic labor agitator; Biff Brannon, the observant owner of a diner; and Dr. Benedict Mady Copeland, an idealistic black physician.

تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و ششم ماه اکتبر سال 2007 میلادی
عنوان: ق‍ل‍ب‌، ش‍ک‍ارچ‍ی‌ ت‍ن‍ه‍ا؛ نویسنده: ک‍ارس‍ن‌ (کارسون) م‍ک‌ ک‍ال‍رز؛ مت‍رج‍م: ش‍ه‍رزاد ل‍ولاچ‍ی‌؛ ویراستار: ارغوان غوث؛ ت‍ه‍ران‌: اف‍ق‌‏‫، 1385؛ در 494 ص؛ شابک: 9643692213؛ چاپ دوم 1387؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده 20 م

شکارچی تنها، نخستین رمان تحسین برانگیز «کارسن مک کالرز» زمانی به چاپ رسید، که نویسنده تنها بیست و سه سال داشت؛‌ نویسنده‌ ای که نیمی از بدنش، در سی و یک سالگی، به طور کامل فلج شد، و تا مدت‌ها،‌ تنها یک انگشت ایشان، برای تایپ مطالبش، حرکت می‌کرد. رمان ایشان روایتگر زندگی «جان سینگر»، مردی کر و لال و تنهاست. او در جمع افرادی متضاد حضور دارد، که رازهای خود را، برای او می‌گشایند، و «سینگر»،‌ زندگی ملال‌ آور آن‌ها را، چنان دگرگون می‌کند، که هرگز به فکر خودشان هم نمی‌رسید. نقل نمونه متن: «در شهر دو مرد لال زندگی میکردند که همیشه با هم بودند. هر روز صبحِ زود از خانه شان بیرون میآمدند و دست در دست خیابان را میپیمودند که سر کار بروند. آن دو رفیق خیلی با هم فرق داشتند. آن کسی که همیشه راه را نشان میداد، یونانی چاق و خیالبافی بود که در تابستان اغلب با پیراهن جلو بسته ی زرد یا سبز بیرون میآمد، و جلویش را نامرتب در شلوارش فرو میکرد و پشت آن از شلوارش بیرون میآمد. وقتی هوا سردتر میشد، روی همان لباسها ژاکت خاکستری بی قواره ای میپوشید. صورتش گرد و چرب بود و پلکهایی نیمه باز، و لبخندی آرام و بیروح بر لبانش بود. آن یکی قد بلند بود. نگاهی نافذ داشت که حاکی از هوشش بود. همیشه بسیار تمیز بود و موق‍ّر لباس میپوشید. هر روز صبح آن دو دوست، بی هیچ حرفی، تا خیابان اصلی شهر با هم میرفتند. بعد وقتی به میوه فروشی و قنادی مورد نظر میرسیدند، لحظه ای در پیاده رو مکث میکردند. اسپیروس آنتوناپولوس یونانی، برای خویشاوندش که صاحب مغازه ی میوه فروشی بود، کار میکرد. او وظیفه داشت شیرینی و آب نبات درست کند، میوه ها را از جعبه بیرون بیاورد، و فروشگاه را تمیز کند. جان سینگرِ لاغراندام، تقریباً همیشه قبل از رفتن دستش را روی شانه ی رفیقش میگذاشت، و لحظه ای نگاهش میکرد، و بعد از خداحافظی از خیابان رد میشد و پیاده به جواهرفروشی میرفت. کار او قلم زنی روی نقره جات بود. آنها دم غروب دوباره همدیگر را میدیدند. سینگر به میوه فروشی برمیگشت، و منتظر میماند تا آنتوناپولوس آماده شود، که با هم به خانه بروند. مرد یونانی در خالی کردن جعبه های هلو، و خربزه تنبلی میکرد، یا شاید مشغول نگاه کردن به نشریه ی فکاهی، در آشپزخانه ی پشت فروشگاه بود، که در آنجا آشپزی میکرد. آنتوناپولوس قبل از رفتن، همیشه پاکتی را که آن روز، پشت یکی از قفسه های آشپزخانه پنهان کرده بود، باز میکرد. داخل آن خوردنیهای مختلفی بود، که آن روز جمع کرده بود؛ یک تکه میوه، چندتا آب نبات، یا ته یک تکه کالباس جگر. آنتوناپولوس معمولاً قبل از رفتن آرام از کنار یخچال شیشه ای جلوی مغازه، که گوشت و پنیر را در آن نگه میداشتند رد میشد. او مخفیانه در ِ یخچال را باز میکرد و دست چاقش را با ولع تمام کورمال کورمال به سمت خوراکی به خصوصی که میخواست میبرد. گاهی خویشاوندش که صاحب مغازه بود متوجه نمیشد. اما اگر او را میدید با عصبانیت به او خیره میشد، انگار که میخواست هشدار بدهد. در این صورت آنتوناپولوس با ناراحتی آن خوراکی را در یخچال جابجا میکرد. در این مواقع سینگر دست به جیب و شق و رق میایستاد و به سمت دیگری نگاه میکرد. او دوست نداشت این برخورد زشت بین دو هموطن را ببیند. چون، آنتوناپولوس به غیر از می خوارگی و خوشگذرانی پنهانی معمول، خوردن را از هر چیز دیگری در دنیا بیشتر دوست داشت. دم غروب آن دو مرد لال آهسته به سمت خانه میرفتند. در خانه، سینگر همیشه با آنتوناپولوس حرف میزد. با دستهایش خیلی تند کلمات را ادا میکرد. صورت مشتاقی داشت و چشمان سبز ـ خاکستریش برق میزد و با دستان لاغر و پرقدرتش اتفاقات آن روز را برای آنتوناپولوس تعریف میکرد. آنتوناپولوس لم میداد و به سینگر نگاه میکرد. تقریباً به ندرت دستهایش را تکان میداد تا چیزی بگوید؛ و بعد فقط میخواست بگوید که میخواهد چیزی بخورد، بنوشد یا بخوابد. اینها را هم همیشه با همان علامتهای گنگ و حرکات ناشیانه ابراز میکرد. شبها، اگر خیلی مست نبود، کنار تختش زانو میزد تا دعا بخواند. بعد با دستان چاقش کلمات مسیح مقدس و یا خدا و یا مریم مقدس را ادا میکرد. اینها تنها کلماتی بودند که آنتوناپولوس گفته بود. سینگر هیچ وقت نفهمید که دوستش چقدر از چیزهایی را که او برایش تعریف کرده فهمیده است. اما مهم هم نبود. آنها با هم در طبقه ی فوقانی خانه ی کوچکی نزدیک بخش تجاری شهر زندگی میکردند. خانه دو اتاق داشت. آنتوناپولوس روی اجاق نفتی آشپزخانه پخت و پز میکرد. در آشپزخانه یک صندلی معمولی مخصوص سینگر و کاناپه ای برای آنتوناپولوس بود. تختخوابها تقریباً تمام فضای اتاق خواب را گرفته بود. تختخواب آنتوناپولوس بزرگ بود، با لحافی از پر قو و تختخواب سینگر باریک بود و آهنی. شام همیشه خیلی طول میکشید چون آنتوناپولوس عاشق غذا بود و دیر دست از خوردن میکشید. بعد از شام وقتی سینگر ظرفها را میشست یونانی چاق روی کاناپه اش لم میداد و به آرامی با زبانش دندانهایش را تمیز میکرد؛ این کار یا به خاطر لذت بردن بود، یا اینکه نمیخواست حتی مزه ی باقی مانده ی غذا روی دندانهایش را هم از دست بدهد.»؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی

This is a high school read for me in 11th grade back in 1991. That title is amazing all on it's own.

I remember this affecting me greatly when I read it. It's been so long, I don't remember a whole lot. I think this is the book where the man puts his hand in his pocket and I remember the discussion that we had in class about that. Funny now.