Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

There is this part in the book where the character, Mr. S was waiting for the last streetcar when he saw a completely empty shop window and stared at it, inside was only a single lightbulb hanging on a wire. As if in a trance of the scene before him, he stood and stared at that glowing electric bulb. Later we find out that as a child, when Mr. S� father received a honorarium from work, he would buy jam and butter after weeks of eating only potatoes. And then they would laugh and his father would pick him up and put him in his shoulders. They’d walk around the room and stop in the middle, and little S would look straight at the glowing filament of the bulb, which was at his eye level.

I had to pause when coming across this part, I think because of how painful it is to look at a memory with such warmth and detail that would otherwise slip away from us. I found that it is becoming much rare to be able to recall certain memories, but when it does come, like Mr. S staring at the lightbulb in an empty shop, they seep in, drop by drop - a sediment of other times.

Is the light still the same?

I’m not sure, I’m not sure.

“What decade would you choose - the sixties, the seventies, or the eighties?�
“I’d like to be twelve years old in each of them.�*