Wednesday, August 14, 2013
the last book I ever read (Mary Coin by Marisa Silver, excerpt seven)
from Marisa Silver's Mary Coin:
“What time is it?
“It’s the afternoon. It’s four-thirty in the afternoon.”
Philip had been born at ten fifty-seven in the morning. Miller at three forty-nine in the afternoon. She’d made Everett look at his watch. Time mattered. A picture doesn’t bring someone to life. A picture is a death of the moment when the picture is taken. Whenever you look at a picture, time dies again.
Papa drew the covers up to her chin. He told her to lie still so that it wouldn’t hurt so much. He told her she looked fine.
Dead Man’s Float. The picture could be taken from above if she stood on a stepladder. Or she could stand in the hallway and include the frame of the door and maybe only a bit of her side and her hand and a fraction of smooth sheet. But she could not take the picture. She was the picture. It was being taken of her. The light was too bright. She held up her hand to shield her face.