Marco Polo's tears (dedikált példány) [antikvár]

She died on a winter's afternoon; February, to be exact.It was Ben who called me with the news: 'Amanda is dead. Another attack, a couple of hours " ago. She has peace, at last.' And, like Agave when she sees her son Pentheus' head bleeding under her arm, I could only stammer and ask, 'Where? And when?''In the hospital. Here, in Florence.' He sounded surprised. 'I told you, a few hours ago. I'm sorry, Alex, I didn't check the time precisely.'I could hear his voice breaking over the line. He grieved at last, with the anger of years of waiting for this moment; helpless in the face of grief. I said, 'I'll fly out at once. Can you meet me at the airport? You know how the trains are down to the country. Oh, Ben, I'm terribly sorry. It seems so sudden, after ali this time.'After ali this timedoes mental illness protract time? Ben had replaced the receiver; there seemed nothing else to say. She was his wife, and she was my sister.My wife said afterwards, 'I think none of you knew ali of her, least of ali Ben. You always insisted on treating her like a mental patient.''Martha, she lost her mind. It was scattered over the plains of Central Asia. And you ne ver knew her as we did, in the old days.''Because I came later? Will you never forget that? Perhaps I saw more clearly for that. Madness is relative. What was sane, when Amanda was mad?'