by Michel Faber.
A good novel, original (the aliens are us; a self-sustained, self-regulating, hierarchy-free society of engineers) and well-thought, revolving around the themes of both the limits of faith and the strains of separation, or the impossibility of giving credit to any other reality than that we’re actually living in. I’ll read more from Faber.
Someone from inside went all the way out to stand before me and tell me in by no means a friendly or discreet way that didn’t I know that you couldn’t pay fines here, only get the form to pay them at the bank? I had actually told a young guy he could pay there right at the desk!
The problem is, as much as I’d like to know who it was who scolded me, I can’t, because it happened on my first week at my new post and frankly, they all were blurry faces to me back then yet. I’d really love to hate her and long hold a grudge against her but find I’m getting nowhere on that path because no matter how hard I try to match her face against the ones I’m able now to put a name on—I can’t.
And now that I come to think of it, it might be perfectly the case that I’m actually being nice to her, without knowing so. Such a shame, isn’t it?
I thought I’d had enough of working in the evenings so I asked for a transfer and got it. I like my new post and I like my free evenings. I do almost nothing on them; I even listen to music from time to time —I mean, sitting on the coach and just listen. Time passes by, and that’s fine with me. Urge is gone.
I wonder if you could say I’m coming to terms with my age.