I came to understand that Boris responded far
more directly to the indirect; that is to say, his real emotions surfaced only
when mediated by the unreal. Time and again, I had sat dry-eyed beside him
while ne snuffled and wept over actors on a big, flat screen. I had never, ever
seen him cry in the so-called real world, not for Stephan [frère de Boris], not for his mother, nor for me or for Daisy
or for dead friends or for any human being who wasn’t made of celluloid.
(Extrait de
The summer without men de Siri
Hustvedt)
