“My father did, I think. Commit suicide.
Although they called it an accident.
His car went over a cliff into the sea.
On to some rocks that you can see at low tide but not high water.
No collision, no skid marks or anything.
My mother kept the newspaper cutting, I still have it somewhere.
Who knows what might have appeared in the road coming towards him.
The rest of his life maybe.”
Hoban, R. (1975) Turtle Diary p. 76. London: Bloomsbury Publishing
Read Russell Hoban, he is an author to read. His words are touching, at times he tells the story from right inside your head. His words grab me, I sit on the tram with Turtle Diary on my lap and eyes moist, early in the morning. I try not to glimpse my life down the road, and can imagine my reaction if I were to see it. What are we living for?
“My despair has long since been ground up fine and is no more than the daily salt and pepper of my life.” same book, same tram journey, same moist eyes and me sighing.
With his words Hoban reaches into my chest grips my heart, twists and squeezes. I gasp for air, relieved. That’s what I live for, the experience of breathing.
Living and breathing.