the nineteenth century: the obsession they had then with harems. Dozens of paintings of harems, fat women lolling on divans, turbans on their heads or velvet caps, being fanned with peacock tails, a eunuch in the background standing guard. Studies of sedentary flesh, painted by men who’d never been there. These pictures were supposed to be erotic, and I thought they were, at the time; but I see now what they were really about. They were paintings about suspended animation; about waiting, about objects not in use. They were paintings about boredom. But maybe boredom is erotic, when women do it, for men. I
И с началом сезона Дэзи снова втянуло в круговорот этой сумеречной вселенной. Снова она за день успевала побывать на полдюжине свиданий с полудюжиной молодых людей; снова замертво валилась в постель на рассвете, бросив на пол измятое бальное платье вместе с умирающими орхидеями. Но все время настойчивый внутренний голос требовал от нее решения. Она хотела устроить свою жизнь сейчас, сегодня; и чтобы решение пришло, нужна была какая-то сила – любви, денег, неоспоримой выгоды, – которую не понадобилось бы искать далеко.
This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the face of melancholy is: 'Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you're not part of it.' My advice is: 'Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.
Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. You are too young to understand it, she said, but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of—oh, of your father. I was shocked. Atticus doesn’t drink whiskey, I said. He never drunk a drop in his life—nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn’t like it. Miss Maudie laughed. Wasn’t talking about your father, she said. What I meant was, if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn’t be as hard as some men are at their best. There are just some kind of men who—who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results. Do