23. Oh the glamour of being the visceral type

Oh the glamour of being the visceral type, the unaffordable luxury of it all! Viscera aren’t meant for display in a showcase. That’s where ordure builds up – the meanness, the hatred, the fear. That’s where Grandmother’s meat grinder is, the proverbial box – Pandora an’ all. That’s where Mom falls asleep alongside a host of her friends – neurotic women with diabetes, prematurely ailing, hands criss-crossed with jar scars. Everything’s complicated down there and extremely mixed up. That’s where crucibles crackle, that’s where death comes ingloriously. There, oh, there no one lies. Down there in the damp cold we all huddle together, faces caved in on themselves like gloves turned inside out.

23. Oh the glamour of being the visceral type

Onze ingewanden – wat een ijdelheid, wat een onaanvaardbare luxe! Ingewanden stal je niet uit. Daar hopen zich ellende, benepenheid, haat en angst op. Daar bevindt zich oma’s gehaktmolen, de doos met Pandora en al. Daar slapen moeder en die zooi vriendinnen van haar, suikerziek, neurotisch, gebrekkig vóór hun tijd, met handen die ze aan glazen potten sneden. Daar is alles ingewikkeld en erg verward. Daar knetteren de distilleerkolven, daar sterf je zonder roem. Daar, daar liegt niemand. Daar, in de klamme koude, bevinden we ons allemaal, ons gezicht naar binnen, als een binnenstebuiten gekeerde handschoen.

Ce mondenitate să fii visceral, ce lux nepermis! Viscerele nu sînt de pus în galantar. Acolo se adună mizeria, meschinăria, ura şi frica. Acolo e maşina de tocat a bunicii, cutia cu Pandora cu tot. Acolo doarme mama cu mulţimea ei de prietene diabetice, nevrotice şi betege înainte de vreme, cu mîinile tăiate-n borcane. Acolo totul e complicat şi foarte amestecat. Acolo trosnesc retortele, acolo se moare fără glorie. Acolo, acolo, nimeni nu minte. Acolo, în frigul umed, stăm cu toţii, cu chipul răsucit înăuntru, ca o mănuşă întoarsă pe dos.